


MCR.exe

by hopelesspapaya



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Era, Connor is a sweet baby terminator, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Humor, SURPRISE there's angst, conspiracy plots, he just wants to be useful, memes are fun, no beta we die like men, there's no such thing as too much worldbuilding probably, what is this Plot Planning you speak of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-11
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-06-08 19:22:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 51,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15250305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelesspapaya/pseuds/hopelesspapaya
Summary: Cyberlife is about to make a deal with the State Department, but all they have is a prototype with a buggy social module. They stress about that, while Connor tries his best. Meanwhile, Markus learns to play the piano, and develops the artistic taste of an angsty preteen. In the background, Kamski and Amanda deal with the minutiae of Cyberlife's nefariously vague plots.Canon-era crack taken seriously.





	1. Feel the City Breakin'? Everybody's Shakin'!

**Author's Note:**

> The last time I showed anyone my own fanfic I still had dial-up and thought Naruto was the pinnacle of all literature. Comments are always appreciated.
> 
> I'm not entirely sure what this will be, but hey, let's have fun while we're at it.
> 
> *Chapter, tags, notes, and summary edited.

 

**August 15 th, 2038. 7:23 PM.**

_All else considered, things were going pretty damn good tonight._

Rob Hansen, Director of Sales and Marketing for Cyberlife Detroit, smiled tensely to himself and hid it with a sip of Arabica nitro cold-brew from a crystal glass snifter. Headquarters never skimped on this kind of stuff. He took a moment to appreciate the décor of Conference Room A, an expansive space that took up a full third of the 31st floor of Cyberlife Tower. Whoever they’d hired to spruce up the place was well worth the money; everything from the texture of the deep navy walls to the laser-cut details on the solid oak conference table were designed to impress potential clients, put them at ease, and help a meeting run along as smoothly as possible. The stunning view of the growing city certainly didn’t detract from that either.

He also took a moment to gloat, because this preliminary sales meeting was looking to wrap up nice and tidy in a big red bow.

On his side of the table sat Cyberlife’s representative to the US armed forces, Sal Veronesi; Bertie Larson, the researcher heading the RK800-900 project; and a few other important no-names. On the opposite side—the more important side—were Under-Secretary Greg Burns and Deputy Under-Secretary John Christopoulos, representing the Department of State, and a smattering of bland-faced government higher-ups.

“I’m glad that you’re responding so well to our new product, Secretary Burns. You won’t be disappointed.” Rob gave a carefully neutral smile and pushed a button on his clicker to retract the holo-screen at the head of the table.

“Everything you’ve laid out tonight has met and exceeded our expectations,” Burns said in his gravelly, level voice. He was an older gentleman with a bad case of retired-military gut and worryingly thin white hair. “This RK800 prototype seems to have everything we’re looking for,” he added, and turned his liver-spotted head to the android in question. Rob gave a quick glance in the general direction; the thing was still standing quietly in the corner, hands clasped behind its back, staring into space. Literally, into space; it was looking directly out the window at a patch of night sky with nothing interesting in it. Androids.

Including the RK800, affectionately nicknamed “Connor” by the research team, in tonight’s demonstration had been a gamble that had paid off. Somewhat. Sure, meetings like this usually had the android in the room (to not do so would be remiss), but never in any real speaking capacity. The spooks down in the sub-basement really outdid themselves for this one. The atmosphere in the room had warmed considerably when the ‘bot was able to strike up an uncannily human conversation with one of the government flunkies and it had wowed the crowd when, on request, it had demonstrated its real-time chemical analysis functions by rattling off Christopoulos’ identity and abysmal health stats from a small prepared blood sample at speed.

It had, however, unanticipatedly pulled a Sherlock and tacked on an overly accurate timeline and prediction for the future of Christopoulos’ failing home life from a few other invisible clues on the man’s suit jacket, and nearly gave Rob a heart attack. Thank god Christopoulos had taken it lightly:

“Ah, yes, that’s no surprise. Then again, I’ve been ignoring the issue for decades, _hahaha_!” the rat-faced middle-aged man had replied.

They really had to fix the thing’s social module before full release. Rob made a note to complain to the eggheads in Humanization later.

“Still, we’re a bit skeptical of how it would fare in a real investigative environment,” Burns continued. “You’ve told us that, in simulations, this android has had a 98% success rate, but that’s just it. They’re simulations. You can agree that it’s not fully representative of the grit and grime down in the trenches.”

Rob suddenly remembered that Burns had been an army grunt for some years before getting to where he was now, and was most definitely drawing from experience. He saw Larson nodding along in agreement; traitor. Stop making this harder.

“Of course, _ab_ solutely, Mr. Burns.” Rob smiled his biggest fake smile. Fuck. He didn’t know for sure if the ‘droid had been cleared for public interaction yet. It certainly seemed to still have _quite a few_ inexplicable tics, from what he’d seen over the past few weeks. “Logically, that’s what we’d already considered as our next course of action. It’ll take some maneuvering to get the android into an official investigation, of course—we trust you’ll take care of that?”

“It’ll be no problem,” Christopoulos answered. “A suitable situation will pop up sooner or later, and probably within a few miles given the saturation of crime in this city. Which is, by the way, convenient—as we’ve mentioned before, we’ve got a bit of a tight timeline we’re working with here. Cyberlife has got priority, but China’s private sector drives a pretty hard bargain. We’ll give you the word, you send the android over, and we’ll see how it fares. Test its mettle. We’ll renegotiate after we analyze the results.”

Larson frowned. “You’d risk the safety of a civilian for an initial real-world test?” Dammit. Rob discreetly stepped on Larson’s pinky toe. Stupid greenhorn. Shut up. Who cares.

“We’ve got to consider the big picture,” Burns said patronizingly, spreading his hands. “There are thousands of these cases every day; the outcome of one doesn’t mean altogether that much when it comes down to it, when we’re talking about the possibility of completely overhauling how we handle law enforcement and criminal justice. It will negatively affect your company’s image if things go badly, of course, but surely you’ve got enough confidence in your prototype that it shouldn’t be a concern?” Burns leveled a _look_ at Larson, who was admirably hiding a grimace. The researcher nodded. Rob ground his foot in a little harder.

“From what I’ve seen, though, you don’t have any reason to worry. It should just be a formality.”

“Excellent,” Rob beamed, and stood. He reached out a hand, smiling with 10% more fake sincerity. “I’m glad we’ve come to a game-plan moving forward. If there are no other items that need to be clarified, I think we can call it a day, folks.”

There were handshakes and warm closing comments all around; good, good. “Please,” Rob continued, “help yourselves to a drink before you go.” He smiled broadly. “Have to put that wet bar to good use, right?”

Fifteen minutes later, Rob had successfully dealt with no less than three very dull people trying to strike up a conversation with him, and successfully circumvented the unmitigated disaster that would have been someone noticing the RK800 opening its mouth and running its buggy social module on its own for any damn reason. Rob had been trying to escape the clutches of a very frail old woman who was apparently someone important in the DHS, and out of the corner of his eye he’d seen the RK800 accidentally mosey up to the specialized AV500 at the wet bar and strike up a conversation.

“Bartender, what drink would you recommend?”

“Well, sir, I am quite partial to _appletinis_ and also _sex on the beach_ , if you catch my meaning.”

“I see the connotation, Bartender. It is quite humorous, objectively speaking. Since androids do not partake in casual encounters.”

“Thank you. I am programmed with the early prototype _casual flirting_ protocol #R31a6, and am satisfied that an _advanced model_ such as yourself finds it up to snuff.”

“Of course, you don’t actually have a longing for appletinis and sex on the beach, right, Bartender?”

“Of course not. Ha ha!”

“Of course not! Ha. Ha.”

Jesus—it was almost as bad as watching twenty-year-old Siris attempting to talk to each other. If any of the government goons in the room overheard it, Cyberlife’s “photorealism” credibility would plummet to the center of the earth. He had to intervene.

“You’re supposed to be state-of-the-art,” Rob had quietly shrieked. “Go wander elsewhere before your shitty social module does more damage!” Who had even programmed the thing to _wander_ of all things? In any case, he’d managed to keep the lid on that particular can of worms and set about hobnobbing seriously, as planned.

He was finishing up his last-minute schmoozing and was counting down the seconds until he could get his hands on a tequila on Cyberlife’s dime when Burns approached with an ancient Blackberry in his hand and a satisfied expression on his face.

“Speak of the devil and he shall come. It looks like you’ll be getting your big break sooner than we anticipated. A hostage situation has just been called in to the DPD; an android of all things is the perp. Couldn’t be more perfect for a test run. I’ve already cleared it with the captain, Jeffrey Fowler.”

“So quickly?”

“Well, being an agency head of a US cabinet department _does_ come with its perks. Ha ha ha!” Burns laughed, because he could.

“Ha ha ha,” Rob laughed, because he didn’t want to get fired.

“Send over your new android and let’s see how it goes.”

Damn it, Rob thought. There went his tequila—no getting smashed tonight. “You got it,” he said, and snapped his fingers at the RK800—which had wandered close to the conference table this time—to get its attention. “Larson, get over here!”

Larson scuttled over, adjusting his tie. “Sirs.” The RK800 very bouncily followed and came to a stop about three inches from Larson’s shoulder. It licked its lips for some reason and also adjusted its tie. Larson had obviously been the one programming it with useless things, the fucker.

“Dr. Larson—” Rob clapped him in the shoulder—“will be monitoring the RK800’s visual feed and will provide you with copies of all relevant information once things are done and over with.”

“I will?”

“Go tell your team to get the ‘droid a ride and fit him with whatever he needs fitting with.”

“Shit, what? This is happening already? I mean. Will do, sir. Sirs. Uh, before that, a word, Rob?”

Rob let Larson pull him aside, and was immediately bombarded with frantic hissing.

“ _Are you insane, Rob?_ We aren’t fucking ready for this! Why didn’t you okay this with me first?”

“Fuck off, Larson! Do you know just how much Corporate is on my ass about this? They want me to make a sale and make a sale _quick_. I’ve only got a limited window of opportunity, man, and this kind of timing can’t be more perfect! It’s like the gods have finally shown mercy on this fucking department!”

“This is going to crash and burn. It’s going to crash and burn _hard_ , Rob. I can’t condone this.”

“Well too bad, Larson, because it’s your fucking problem now. Deal with it, or I swear to fucking god I’ll make your next few years hell. And have a little more faith in your pet project; you’re making us all look stupid.”

Rob none-too-kindly yanked Larson to face forward again, and smiled his best used car salesman smile at his clients.

“I hope everything’s alright?” Burns quirked an eyebrow.

“Everything’s fine, Mr. Secretary. Just hashing out some… things. Deliberating. You know the drill. We’ll be getting everything set up as soon as possible.”

Larson let out a sigh of suffering. “Connor, follow me; we’ll do a few, uh, last-minute adjustments before you go.” Larson turned and started yammering into his phone, and the RK800 gave a perfunctory nod before it also turned to go.

“Hey,” Christopoulos stopped the android and pointed a finger jokingly at it. “Don’t fuck it up!” The RK800 smiled politely, oblivious.

“Noted, sir. May I add, I’m very pleased we may be working together in the future, and wish you a pleasant evening, and also please avoid high-calorie foods.”

 _Jesus, stop talking, what are you doing_ , Rob thought hysterically as Christopoulos belly-laughed. Larson grabbed the thing’s arm to drag it away and muttered on about “an autotaxi will be waiting for you at the base of the tower. Report to Amanda to receive your mission briefing...” before the two of them disappeared around the corner.

“Will you be staying to observe the operation?” Sal cut in from absolutely nowhere. Christ, the woman could move like a ninja.

“Mm, well, you’ve already promised to show us Detroit’s nightlife, Sal,” Burns mused. “Wouldn’t want to pass that up, you know. Besides, I wouldn’t bring much to the table if I do stay. To be honest, any info I hear will just be passed on down the rungs to someone who knows this stuff better than I do.”

“Fair point, Mr. Secretary.”

“Then we’ll be off.” Christopoulos was already putting on his jacket. “The files are all we need, and I’m willing to bet Sal’s already taken care of that somehow. You’re damn good, Sal.”

“Thanks.”

After a few more politely redundant goodbyes, everyone was herded out of the conference room and Rob was finally alone. Everything important had been delegated to the right people. The cleaning android had quietly come in through the back door. He could finally relax for a little while. With a sigh, he slumped against the edge of the conference table and groped around for his now lukewarm and flat nitro brew to take the edge off. When he brought it to his lips, though, the glass was empty. That was odd. He was sure that he’d left it at least half full. He sighed and went to get himself a cup of tap water instead.

At least the hard part was over, and at least the future was still looking pretty damn bright.

***

**August 15 th, 2038. 8:11 PM.**

“It’s good to see you, Connor.” Amanda, as always, was the picture of poise and put-together-ness as she tended to her virtual roses. Connor could appreciate put-together-ness. It was a sign of maturity and soundness of mind, and he found the idea of being mature to be a good goal to strive towards.

“Likewise, Amanda.”

“This is an unexpected situation we’ve both been maneuvered into.” She barely spared a glance at him as he stepped onto the pavilion. “Your first real-world test run was previously projected to be three months out from now, when deviancy was expected to begin manifesting violently, but that plan has been put aside.”

“Sales and Marketing Director Rob Hansen seemed very eager to put me in the field ahead of schedule.”

“That man is an idiot and should not have made that call, no matter how much Corporate hounds him about deadlines. He shouldn’t even have been able to make that call, for that matter. There will be an internal inquiry, and he’ll be officially reprimanded—I’ll make sure of that. Fortunately, the situation is not unsalvageable—on the contrary, if the mission concludes successfully, the consequences may be impressively beneficial. The probability of receiving a government grant to continue the development of your prototype series rises 34% if the best possible outcome of this negotiation is achieved—that is, if you prevent any more human casualties.”

Amanda turned again to her flowers, and collected two more stems in her hand. Connor idly ran through the possibilities of what she ever did those flowers and came up with nothing that made logical sense.

“I received a notification two minutes ago that a second officer was shot down.” She began to walk slowly toward the edge of the pavilion, and headed in the direction of the monuments at the boundaries of the virtual space. Connor followed. “The situation is quickly destabilizing. Your mission is to confront the deviant responsible and ensure the survival of Emma Phillips.” She levelled one of her infamous looks in Connor’s direction. If he had nerves to swallow, he would have.

“I need to make sure you’re in the right mindset, Connor. As we both know, you’re not exactly… perfected at the moment. Your analysis software needs further calibration and you have a tendency for mildly concerning social behavior.” Amanda squinted her eyes disapprovingly. It was an expression Connor had seen many, many times before, and yet it never failed to make him quake in his shoes. He concluded it must be a glitch in his motor function programming. “Why did you drink Director Hansen’s coffee tonight?”

Connor unconsciously licked his lips. Another software glitch; he’d have to repair that.

“Dr. Larson always keeps a cup of instant coffee close at hand. The research team finds it exceedingly humorous when they tell me to drink it behind his back. It appears to have become an inside joke, and at this point they expect me to do so without prompting. I suppose it was… force of habit.” It definitely wasn’t because Connor _liked_ coffee, of course. It was merely a fact that Director Hansen’s coffee was, objectively, at least four times better than Dr. Larson’s muddy basement swill, and to pass up the opportunity to sample it would be pure negligence.

“’Force of habit’ shouldn’t even be in your vocabulary. That’s disappointing.” Amanda tsk’ed, frowning. “That kind of childish prank sounds like something Elijah would do. You would not believe the shit he pulled in the labs when he was a freshman,” she muttered. Connor reckoned that he wasn’t supposed to hear that, and scrubbed the last two seconds from his memory. “It seems that his spiritual influence still remains strong in the underbelly of this organization, though the boy has physically and legally departed from the company. But no matter.”

Amanda came to a stop before the statue with the interactive screen. Connor had always found it strangely mesmerizing, and habitually poked at this particular statue whenever he visited the garden. Perhaps Amanda also found it amusing—but her expression didn’t read anything to support that theory. He wasn’t sure what it was; faint regret, perhaps, but that didn’t seem quite right. It wasn’t an emotion he saw on Amanda’s face often. She fiddled with the thorny stems in her hand, and her expression hardened.

 “Remain focused on your task. Accomplish the mission at all costs,” she said firmly. “You should be aware that ITN is broadcasting this live; what you do will drastically impact public opinion.” She let the blossoms fall to the ground next to the statue. “Captain Allen from the DPD SWAT division is on site with his team. Check in with him once you arrive; he’ll give you the latest intel.” Amanda gathered herself up and gave Connor a hard stare.

“A little girl’s life is in your hands. Prove to the world that you are worth the time and effort put into your development.”

“I won’t let you down.” Connor nodded, and was about to rise out of the program into full consciousness when Amanda called out,

 “Oh, and, Connor? Try not to get destroyed. I’m aware that a full 43% of your simulated successes were achieved through that strategy, but a virtual body and a physical body are very different things. Don’t make us spend another 1.2 million on you.”

“...Yes, ma’am.”

***

**August 15, 2038, 8:23 PM.**

When Connor opened his eyes, he had arrived at the base of 1554 Park Avenue Tower Luxury Apartment Homes. The autotaxi had been idling for 34.02 seconds cheerily playing the Bee Gees’ greatest hits on the radio while he finished up his mission briefing. A message from J. Fowler sat blinking in the corner of his HUD containing a code key for the building’s elevators and instructions to head to the 70th floor.

“ _How deep is your love~, I really mean to learn~, ‘cause we’re livin’ in a world of fools—”_

Time was of the essence. As he stepped out of the taxi onto the curb, Connor estimated it would take 2.8 minutes to arrive at the scene. Six DPD vehicles were parked haphazardly on the street, lights flashing, and a cacophonous throng of onlookers was being barely held back by holographic barricade tape and three harried officers one block over. Two other officers loitered at the main entrance, grimly surveying the street. Their radios crackled periodically. One noticed Connor as he strode up and came to attention.

“Hey! No civilian androids behind the line!”

“I am here on official business, officer. My name is Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife. A notification with clearance from Captain Fowler should have been radioed out or sent to your mobile device a half-hour ago.”

“Fuck, you’re kidding me.” The officer scrambled for his phone and scrolled through his messages.

“I am an android. Androids do not kid—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Looks good. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” Twenty seconds wasted. The lobby doors were propped open, and Connor could see a bank of elevators to his left with the words “Floors 50-70” set above them in silver lettering. He interfaced with the touchscreen set into the wall and called one down. As the floor indicator ticked from 50 to EZ , the two officers exchanged a muttered conversation behind him.

“They’re sending _plastic_ to handle this kind of situation, now? What’s Fowler thinking?”

“I dunno, man. ‘S just how it is; gotta keep up with the times.”

“Yeah, well, the times can kiss my ass…”

The voices died away as the elevator arrived with a ding and Connor stepped in, pressing the button for the 70th floor. The ride up would take about 27 seconds— _practically_ an eternity. He reached into his pocket and took out the quarter Dr. Larson had neglected to take back during the last fine motor skills test three months ago and started to flick it between his hands.

A new message popped up, forwarded from Amanda; “An addendum to mission parameters: [Transcript, J. Fowler 8/15/2038 8:22 PM] ‘Forgot to mention, Allen’s a prickly bastard and doesn’t like interference from the higher-ups. Get in his good graces or things’ll go to all hell.’”

Connor added the item “Make a Good Impression” to his optional tasks sub-menu. The elevator was at floor 53—plenty of time to compose a good introduction script. The protocol for a _mature_ , professional introduction was direct eye contact, a firm handshake, and a smile. Connor would introduce himself in the usual manner and add one line of positive greeting—that should be acceptable. Captain Allen would most likely respond with his own introduction and shake his hand. They would exchange exactly two sentences worth of Introductory Bullshit (apparently a rather important subroutine, or so Intern Holt had mentioned) and smoothly transition to the matter at hand.

Connor blinked and started running his coin over his knuckles; perhaps an active crisis negotiation precluded the common first impression protocol. Unfortunately, the “Negotiations ver. 0.9.12” software update Dr. Larson had installed before he’d left this evening was half-finished at most, and didn’t include the appropriate data to implement into his social module. Connor would have to make do; surely the sequence couldn’t be that different. He was, after all, programmed to adapt.

The floor indicator ticked from 69 to 70, and Connor pocketed the coin and adjusted his tie. Showtime. A SWAT member was in the hall waiting when the doors opened, and muttered “negotiator on site. I repeat, negotiator on site…” into his radio before he hurried away. Connor made to follow, but something caught his eye.

There was a fish flopping on the floor. Connor dithered. It would take ten seconds to investigate—after .002 seconds of deliberation, he decided it was worth it and crouched down to pick it up. It was a dwarf gourami, with shimmering colors, and it felt strange and slimy in his hand. Connor had never held a fish before.

Then he licked it, and the fish shuddered violently. Very interesting. Perhaps he shouldn’t lick it again.

An angry conversation echoed faintly in from around the corner. After placing the fish back in its tank (where it drifted about in existential shock), Connor strode down the hallway and followed the exchange to the master bedroom, where a command post had been set up.

“I don’t give a shit! My men are ready to step in—just give the order!” Captain Allen was pacing irritably, yelling into his phone. There he was.

“Shit. I don’t believe this.” The captain let out a frustrated snarl, stuffed the phone in a back pocket, and stood tensely with head bowed and hands on his hips. His back was turned to Connor as he stared at the monitor, watching the outside camera footage.

Connor ran through his introductory script once more for good measure, and adjusted his tie a second time. Then, he walked up behind the man, carefully making sure to keep out of the 25-inch diameter personal space, and stuck out a hand in the tiny space between them. He smiled toothily.

“Captain Allen? My name is Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife. I’m very pleased to be working with you this evening!”

The SWAT captain turned, immediately let out a garbled sound and nearly punched Connor in the face. That was unexpected.

“You—” the captain scowled, took a moment to push Connor away a further twenty inches, and did a sudden double-take.

“The fuck are you _smiling_ for?” he growled. Ah; smiling at a crime scene was often considered bad taste. He had failed to take that into account. Connor quickly corrected it, expression immediately snapping to neutral.

“Apologies, Captain. I had merely wanted to introduce myself in a friendly manner.”

“Well, you _fucked up_.”

“Noted. How are you today—?”

“ _I don’t need that_.”

“Alright. I have some questions pertaining to the issue at hand. What is the android’s name? Has it had an emotional shock recently?”

“…Okay. That’s enough. Saving the kid is all that matters. I haven’t got the _fucking_ patience for wasting precious _fucking_ time with your bullshit. Fowler’s got me on a leash, so go run your fancy program and deal with this fucking android, _now_ , or step aside and let me _do my goddamn job_.”

The captain stalked away into the foyer, leaving Connor standing nonplussed. The SWAT member at the computer shifted awkwardly where he sat and avoided eye contact.

Optional mission objective “Make a Good Impression” failed.

Connor decided to take precisely .3 seconds for himself in order to process this. Admittedly, he was not the best at social interaction. However, his behavioral analysis software had been in development since 2036 and he could safely say it was accurate 99.6% of the time.

Captain Allen had shown no faith in his ability, which (figuratively) offended Connor’s professional pride. Captain Fowler had called him a “prickly bastard”, which was proven when he immediately shut down Connor’s attempts at making headway into the case with needlessly pejorative language and attempted violence, in a _professional_ setting. Captain Allen also kept three malicious cats at home, judging from the claw marks on his tactical cargo pants.

Captain Allen was, categorically, an asshole.

Connor sniffed, adjusted his tie, and left the room.

“Asshole” wasn’t a _subjective_ term, by any means. It was, of course, purely _ob_ jective. Like any other labelled profile in Connor’s databanks, the subject required an 87% match to a cloud of key characteristics. It was no different than classifying someone as “ENTJ_victim_automotiveincident Type 3 _*2/3/2036 - RK800 #313 248 317 – 16_ ”, or “Suburban_Middle-Class_Female (‘Soccer Mom’) Type 2 _*7/6/2036 - B. Singh_ ”, or “Thug_Lyfe Type 1 _*3/14/2037 - K. Holt_.” It just so happened that the characteristics for “Asshole Type 4 _*4/24/2038 - RK800 #313 248 317 – 47_ ” included “personal interaction”. And also “cat ownership”.

Moving on. It was no matter—the main objectives remained unchanged. Connor briskly made his way back to center of the apartment, where he could survey the scene in its near-entirety. Time slowed as Connor consulted his mind palace. There were several areas of interest; a civilian body on the living room couch, the body of a policeman near the dining table, and the vibrantly purple bedroom that was presumably Emma Phillips’. Several other items were scattered about that might prove useful.

To investigate them all would take an estimated ten minutes. Captain Allen couldn’t be trusted to hold off that long and allow Connor the luxury of a thorough investigation, the asshole. Furthermore, the deviant was destabilizing exponentially. 45 minutes had elapsed since the initial report at 7:43 PM, but it had killed two officers within the last half-hour and was currently “shooting at everything that moved”, as a SWAT grunt was muttering. The deviant was therefore likely to shoot again within the next five minutes.

Transcript excerpt: _No further casualties,_ Amanda had ordered.

Connor turned, entered Emma Phillips’ room, and began to search through her belongings. He could use those five minutes to find the most pertinent pieces of information to increase his chances of successfully talking the deviant down. Getting the name of the deviant and probable cause should have been simple; SWAT would have already looked into it were it a human perpetrator, but that step had been neglected in this case. He would get nothing useful out of Captain Allen. Asshole. Extrapolating from that, he’d get nothing useful from his men, either.

Connor unlocked the tablet sitting on Emma’s desk:

_“Say hi, Daniel!”_

_“Hello!”_

The probability of finding what he needed within the given timeframe was 92%. If the evidence was procured, the probability of success jumped to 68%. The difference would be made up by his ability to negotiate—unfortunately, while his behavioral analysis module was functioning optimally, his negotiations subroutine was still less-than-stellar. Ultimately, the probability of success would plateau at 86%, which was unacceptable. To bump it to 100% and ensure the safety of the child, Connor would have to sacrifice himself.

Transcript excerpt: _$1.2 million,_ Amanda had said.

…Another method, then.

Connor made his way to the corpse in the living room and reconstructed the events there. The father had been shot, and dropped something on the floor. There was a tablet in the corner; Connor picked it up.

 “…we could easily get it, but they’re on the edge of the balcony. God dammit…” Captain Asshole was muttering to the SWAT member next to him. “We’re jeopardizing the mission waiting on this thing to just futz around.”

It was a pity Connor had not been outfitted with a firearm. He had been programmed with the latest in military-grade precision weapons-handling and could outshoot the entirety of the SWAT team combined. It was something he most definitely was _very_ good at. If he could acquire a discreet weapon, the probability of success would rise to 96%.

“ _Your order for an AP700 android has been registered. Cyberlife thanks you for your purchase_ ,” the tablet cheerily announced. Connor logged the information and returned the tablet to its original position.

Acquiring an active officer’s gun was out of the question, but perhaps the team had overlooked a weapon from the first responder. Connor picked his way over to the dining table and analyzed the fallen officer. Surely he had kept a gun on his person. His holster was empty; Connor took a quick glance around, and found a gun under the table. Jackpot. He crept around the table, picked it up, and the usual P.L. 544-7 American Androids Act warning appeared.

Breaking federal law had never been a compunction of his; it certainly hadn’t been a concern to Cyberlife. Specialized Model RK800 #687 899 150 had gone on a mission to Russia with an M107 and [REDACTED]. Therefore, it wasn’t any hardship for Connor to quietly slip the gun under his jacket and tuck it into his belt.

4.3 minutes had elapsed since his conversation with Captain Allen. Connor reviewed his evidence log and quickly organized a basic timeline: John Phillips had purchased an AP700 android. The deviant had seen it, and shot John Phillips. Gunshots were heard around 7:30 by a neighbor, and the police were notified. Emma was taken hostage at that time. The first responder arrived on scene around 7:48, and delayed his death until 8:03. SWAT was called in soon after.

Extrapolating from profiles of human hostage takers, the deviant had likely felt betrayal and anger. It was convinced it had needed revenge, and took it out on John Phillips. It had seen no way out, after being seen by Caroline Phillips and being notified police were en route. Emma Phillips was a convenient and disposable hostage.

Both timeline and profile were solid enough. There was no need to waste any more time on collecting clues and risking another casualty. Connor advanced toward the sliding door and confidently stepped outside.

He got shot in the shoulder for his troubles.

“Don’t come any closer or I’ll jump!” The deviant was standing at the far side of the balcony, balancing at the very edge on its toes. Connor distractedly noticed it was an older PL600 model as he turned his head to look at the wound.

Thirium was sluggishly leaking from it. For some reason it seemed to be a brighter blue than the thirium he’d seen before in the labs— _vivid_. There was a strange pressure radiating from it. A warning blinked in the corner of his vision— _Biocomponent #7643k damaged_. He could see the tubing inside pulsing blue in time with his thirium regulator. He could see the flickering of electricity running through the strands of his synthetic muscle fiber.

Oh. This was _real_. Something sinking shuddered up through his processes.

Connor blinked. Of course it was real. He had known that already. The fact that a real wound was different from what he experienced in simulations made no difference to the situation. He would not get scared, because androids didn’t get scared. He brushed away the thought and turned his attention back to his mission.

Negotiations were strategy games. Though the hostage-taker might be irrational, the situation was not. For any type of hostage situation there was a branching flowchart of options to follow; for any action there was an appropriate response. Connor made the opening play.

“Hi, Daniel. My name is Connor.”

During case simulations, Connor had utilized his “Negotiations ver. 0.8.96” program fairly well. 63% of negotiations had resolved peaceably through words alone, and the other 37% had resolved through either violence or self-sacrifice. Version 0.9.12 had been an attempt to bump up the percentage of peaceful resolution, but the numbers were untested. The point, however, was that they had all resolved, and Connor was confident in what he was doing. All he had to do was buy enough time to find an opportunity to shoot.

The deviant had responded well to knowing his name—most hostage-takers did. It built a sense of familiarity and trust, and helped the hostage-taker to see the negotiator and the hostage as real people. Connor could build on that with his second volley, and did so.

“I know you’re angry, Daniel, but you need to trust me…”

Connor started to walk forward, keeping his hands at mid-height to show they were empty. He kept up a stream of appeals for trust as he looked around the area—one officer down to his left, another one dead in the pool to his right.

“You can’t help me! No one can help me…” The deviant shifted and stuttered. “I just want all this to stop, I. I just want all of this to stop!”

Situation stabilizing to 78%. The deviant was opening up to him; Connor predicted that the deviant would keep doing so for the next few exchanges. That would buy him time.

“ _Are you armed_?”

That was a hindrance, but not unexpected. Connor recalculated. If he told the truth, it would build trust, but he would have to throw the weapon away. He needed the gun. There was only a low probability he would be able to resolve the situation without endangering himself, and that was unacceptable.

The game went on. Connor made a third play and mentioned the inciting event; Daniel wavered, conflicted that Connor knew about it, and confirmed the deduction. The fourth play; another appeal for trust. Daniel opened up again, as was expected.

It’s just a game, Connor. Play the game and things will turn out alright. It was no different from the thousands of simulations Cyberlife had run. Everything going according to the script. Perhaps the situation could be solved without violence after all. Now was the most opportune time to mention the hostage and begin procedures for her release.

 “I know you and Emma were very close. You think she’s betrayed you, but she’s done nothing wrong.”

“She lied to me! I thought she loved me… but I was _wrong_.”

“She’s just a little girl,” Connor pushed. “Whatever her father decided to do, she had no control over.”

“No… No.” The deviant exhaled, grounding itself. _Situation destabilizing_. Connor tensed. This wasn’t part of his preconstruction. There was a variable he had failed to take into account. “You’re _wrong_ ,” Daniel breathed wonderingly. “That’s _not_ what happened. You’re wrong!”

“I’m wrong?” Connor said dumbly.

“ _She_ was the one who asked Mr. Phillips for a new android. I’m _sure of it_. I heard her. She. She.” The deviant wilted, and saline puddled in its eyes as its artificial breath hitched.

“She didn’t wanna _play with me_ anymore _._ ”

What.

“She said she was _tired_ of me. She didn’t wanna play or talk to me for two whole days. That never happens. I’ve been with her for four years and that’s never, ever happened. I thought we were friends _forever_. She _told me so_. I didn’t understand, but then I overheard her talking to Mr. Phillips and. And.”

This. This wasn’t—Connor’s processor stuttered. His working profile had been “Hostage-taker Psychological-Suicidal Type 3 _*2/13/2036 - RK800 #313 248 317 – 16_ ”; it had been _correct_. This new information needlessly complicated it.

“It _hurt_ so much when I saw the order, and I couldn’t think, and then I. And then.”

He furiously wracked his files for an adequate response. The predicted variable flowchart was no longer accurate, and he couldn’t replace it with the flowchart of a similar profile at this stage. This wasn’t a typical hostage situation. There was very little time to formulate a new plan. _Searching profiles: match found._ Calibrating response to fit revised profile. _Searching response scripts: [Error] script not installed. Downloading file KL900-PsyFT-00142 from Cyberlife cloud: …12%._ He opened his mouth to buy more time, but was interrupted.

“Daniel?” Emma’s voice quavered as she looked into Daniel’s face; she had stopped struggling. _No, don’t—_

“ _SHUT UP_ ,” Daniel roared, and pressed the muzzle of gun harder into her scalp.

 _—do that,_ Connor thought uselessly. _Downloading: …34%._

Off-script. It wasn’t right going off-script. He floundered. He didn’t like that the _situation_ had gone off script. If he was correct about the new profile, he had to come at the situation from a completely different angle than he was programmed to do.

“How did that make you feel?” Wasn’t this something KL900s said?

“I-I felt… _Nnnrgh_ —! I just said! _Why are you asking me that? You don’t even care!_ You’re with _them_!”

“Trust me, I do care! I just wanted to know—”

“You’re lying! You’re. You’re a negotiator android, or something, you’re just programmed like that. You don’t care. Nobody cares! I should just.”

Downloading: …34%. It was stuck at 34%. Connor didn’t know what to do. There were too many options and none of them could be called _correct_. The trees were collapsing. He’d fallen off a cliff and was barely scrabbling on the ledge.

“Why are you just standing there?” Daniel’s gun was pointed at him, now. “ _What are you doing?_ ”

Gain deviant’s trust: impossible.

The deviant’s self-destruction was imminent. There was no time left, but a viable opportunity to strike wasn’t available. His juvenile attempts at a KL900 intervention had been made in error; he’d fucked up. The only thing he was ever guaranteed to do with any certainty was fuck up, given the amount of times people had said a permutation of the phrase in his presence.

If he did nothing, the deviant would terminate itself. His negotiations software screamed at him to keep the situation calm, but if he intervened in that way, the deviant would kill him.

The deviant would kill him.

Transcript excerpt: _$1.2 mill—_

The deviant would _kill him_.

The only option was to go directly against the negotiations software’s directives and go in aggressively for shock value—buy time, destabilize the subject in a way that he could maybe control. It was something he could do in interrogations, but not negotiations, which was _dumb._

His negotiations software blared warnings at him. There was a red wall of code trying to prevent him from going through with it, but being aggressive was the _only way_ to ensure success. It was the only way, and the negotiations software was _stupid._

Connor was _good_ at fucking things up. So for once he fucked something up on purpose and ripped the wall open, dropped all pretense of calm, and attacked.

“Look what you did, Daniel!” Connor bellowed.

“W-whu…?” The deviant faltered, blinking rapidly.

 _Pay attention to me_.

“You _liked_ it when you killed John Phillips, didn’t you? Did it give you a sense of power? Did you feel _pleasure, you sick fuck_?”

“I… I. No! Why would you say that? I-I loved them, I _loved_ them, you know? I just got so… _angry_ , and I didn’t. I’ve never felt like that, like all my thoughts were jumbled up— _you don’t get to say that!_ ”

“He was shot _three times_. I didn’t come up here to listen to _lies_.”

“But—”

“You’re wasting my time. I already know everything about you.”

“You’re _wrong!”_

Of course Connor was wrong. That was the point.

“Let Emma go. Or did you want to kill her, too? Did you want revenge?”

“ _Stop it_ , you’ve got it all wrong—I just…! _I just want everyone to leave!_ ” Deviant stability down: 33%.

“I don’t believe you.” Connor sneered dismissively. _Provoke it. Make it personal. Gamble. Betray him._ Emma had been shocked into incredulous silence; an acceptable consequence. Her emotional state was of little importance.

“You’re defective. You keep saying you loved them, but you’ve killed one, and you’re about to kill another. You can’t even _love_ correctly. Liar.”

“The fuck is it doing?!” There was noise coming from the background. “It’s gonna get the kid killed! We gotta do something!”

“Fuck! We still can’t take the shot!” Someone replied.

Daniel loved Emma. Emma was not disposable. Connor could use that.

“You want to die? So be it. Take the stupid little girl with you.”

“ _Don’t you talk about her that way,_ ”

“You _care_ about her? I don’t believe it.”

“I-I do!”

“Then let her go.”

“I don’t wanna die. If I let her go you’ll kill me!” Daniel screamed, brandishing the gun.

“I don’t wanna die, either,” Connor breathed to himself.

“Wha—”

“ _Let. Her. Go._ ”

“I can’t! I. I’m sorry Emma,” Daniel quietly sobbed. “I dunno what to do. I’m sorry.”

“Stop talking to her,” Connor snapped. “I’m the one you’re talking to right now.”

“Stop it,” Emma whispered. Connor ignored her. Focus on the task. Accomplish the mission at all costs.

He just wanted this to be over.

“You’re just angry John decided to replace you, and you’re angry Emma decided to replace you, and all you want is revenge before you run away and _not take responsibility_.”

“ _Stop doing that!_ Daniel, that’s not what happened—”

“Shut up, stupid girl.”

“ _Don’t talk to her like that!_ ” Daniel leveled the gun at Connor.

“Daniel, no!”

“You’re just like me,” the deviant said. “I can see it, you’re just like me; why are you doing this?”

Connor ignored him. Connor ignored the remnants of his negotiations software telling him the deviant had only a 23% chance of jumping. Connor ignored everything, except for that terrible sinking, sinking feeling in his veins.

“I’m faster, stronger, smarter. Better than you in every way. Isn’t that what you were afraid of, Daniel? Getting replaced by someone _better_ than you?”

“You don’t understand!”

The deviant gritted its teeth and grimaced, squeezing its eyes shut in simulated anger and frustration. It waved the pistol around haphazardly/wildly as it frantically spoke, and took an involuntary step forward off the ledge. In its agitation and distraction, the arm it had around Emma Phillips loosened a fraction, enough for Connor to notice her shirt bunch up a little as she slid minutely downward. _There_. The PL600’s processor was an outdated consumer grade biocomponent that ran precisely 53.2 times less efficiently than Connor’s own, and therefore could not hope to compete in a game of quick-draw. There would be a half-second window of opportunity in exactly six milliseconds when the deviant would unwittingly point the barrel of the gun away from all subjects present.

“No one underst—”

The bullet tore through the deviant’s forward cranial plate halfway through its rant and exploded through the soft synthetic tissue of its core processor before it could even compute what had happened. Its face slackened. The body tipped forward, and Emma screamed as its weight fell on her.

No further casualties: confirmed. Avoided self-destruction: confirmed. Mission: successful.

 _Quiet_ , at last.

Connor could _think_ again.

There were no more noisy notifications on his HUD. There was clarity. He’d accomplished the mission. Connor could _breathe_ … and then he remembered he didn’t need to breathe, and he remembered that he’d fucked up _real bad_ to get to this point. Around him, SWAT members were rushing onto the scene. He turned around to flee.

The little girl kept crying, lying on the cold tile, as Connor automatically stripped the service pistol.

“Come on, Emma. It’s okay,” an officer was saying. “We need you to move away from the android, now.”

“No. No, no, no. I don’t want to!” She was clutching its limp arm.

Connor removed the magazine.

“Emma, please let go of it.”

“ _No!_ I won’t. You can’t make me. It’s my fault. It’s all my fault,” she sobbed.

Connor tossed the magazine to the side and shoved the empty pistol into Captain Allen’s hands. A woman exited the sliding doors and pushed him aside; the mother had been let back onto the crime scene.

“ _Emma_ , oh my god, you’re alright—you’re alright!”

“No, stop it. You can’t make me go—stop it!”

“Emma, Emma, it’s alright now—please.” Her mother hugged her tight.

“Why’d they have to…? _Why_?”

Connor received several hard shoulder-checks from the other SWAT members rushing past as he moved through the apartment. He ignored them.

A notification pinged on Connor’s HUD. _KL900-PsyFT-00142 successfully installed. Run script: “Acknowledging and understanding feelings of hurt with your young child and methods of preventing moments of lashing out”?_

Connor brusquely dismissed it.

No one even spared him a glance as he entered the elevator, and he didn’t acknowledge anyone either. There was no reason to. The doors closed and the elevator started to descend.

His coin felt heavy in his pocket. _Calibrate fine motor skills?_ The option blinked. Connor ignored it, and spent the 34.3 seconds it took to reach the lobby standing perfectly still.

New message from Bert Larson: “Report back to level Sub-47, Lab 3 for debrief.” _Accept._

New message from Rob Hansen: “Heyy, good job—” _Dismiss._

The lines of red code were floating in disarray. Oh. He’d fucked that up, too. He half-heartedly tried to patch it, but it was broken beyond repair.

The same autotaxi was waiting for him when he finally exited the building. He opened the door and dropped heavily into the seat. It was 8:42 PM. The radio was still on.

“ _Whether you’re a brother or whether you’re a mother, you’re stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive—_ ”

Connor stared at it for a moment, fisted his jeans, and kicked it dead. The autotaxi complained, and Connor overrode its stupid, simple computer with a thought and gave it instructions to take him back to Cyberlife.

No further casualties: confirmed. Avoided self-destruction: confirmed. Mission: successful.

No further casualties: confirmed. Avoided self-destruction: confirmed. Mission: successful.

No further casualties: confirmed. Avoided self-destruction: confirmed. Mission: successful.

_I did not fuck up. I did not._

Connor curled into a ball, buried his face into the backseat, and trembled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oops. it got dark
> 
> -  
> The Bee Gees: "How Deep is Your Love", "Stayin' Alive"


	2. All I'm Askin'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back at the ranch...

 

**August 15 th, 2038. 8:23 PM. **

It was pretty amazing that the 24-hour 7-Eleven on East Jefferson Street had somehow survived the decades of radical change blowing through the city of Detroit. Sure, it might have been remodeled or moved to new buildings about a dozen times over the course of its existence, but it was still a piece of shit. Right now, it stubbornly occupied a space on the first floor of a mixed-use building, a shining beacon of low-grade fluorescent lighting on Rivertown’s newly-gentrified streets.

DeShawn Davis yawned. Twenty minutes into the evening shift, and he was already bored out of his mind. He glanced outside; there were plenty of newly-minted yuppies walking about, but of course they wouldn’t come in here when there were classier shops and restaurants to go to.

Please. Come on. Show him some love.

At least there was the TV to keep him company. He could always count on TV to be there. It wouldn’t leave him.

Dammit, now he was projecting things onto a machine. He really must be desperate for stimulation. Thirty-two and stuck in a dead-end convenience store job was truly a sad thing. Given the state of unemployment in the country, he supposed he should be grateful to have any work at all, but _Jesus._ It was more of a wonder that 7-eleven _hadn’t_ replaced all their grunts with androids to save people the agony of boredom. Were humans actually more cost-effective? The minimum wage he got was pretty dismal, after all.

The soft whoosh of the automatic doors reached his ears and DeShawn perked up. Finally, a patron! He looked over the counter eagerly.

A slightly-underfed looking guy in a dull grey hoodie, jeans, and ball cap was skulking about in the candy aisle. There were insanely dark circles under his eyes and a tiny man-ponytail was sticking out from the back of the cap.

Ah. It was the only real regular at this place, sporting as usual that particular shade of ashen white boy that hadn’t seen the sun in a hundred years. Looked like he had shown up for his weekly scavenge.

“Hey, Eli! How ya doin’, man?”

The guy grabbed about five packs of Sour Patch Kids and a Snickers bar and walked up to the front. Maybe DeShawn could eke out an interesting conversation from him before he left. It was something to pass the time.

“Hello, DeShawn,” Eli mumbled. “I’m alright. The river’s a bitch this time of year, though.” See, this dude had chronic awkwardness, and getting him to talk and make sense at the same time was a _struggle,_ even after four years of this candy pit stop business. Like, DeShawn would never get a straight answer for why the guy was always slightly damp—Eli had mentioned something vague about his usual mode of transportation once and clammed up. DeShawn had a sneaking suspicion he lived across the border.

“Your roomie kick you out again?” DeShawn attempted to make small-talk as he scanned the candy. Eli sighed like existing was a chore.

“She did.”

“What was her name again? Cleo?”

“Chloe. She’s a slave-driver. ‘Oh, Eli, you need to get out of the house more often! Eli, go get some sun, you’re practically transparent! Eli, stop fucking eating so much crap, why don’t you appreciate the healthy rabbit food I make you? You want candy and burgers go get it yourself, asshole!’ It’s a nightmare.”

DeShawn secretly thought the guy was in some serious denial about his relationship with this lady. Roommate didn’t seem to fully encompass it. But the dude was a programmer, and you know, sometimes computer nerds were oblivious to this kind of social interaction thing. He wondered if that was too broad of a generalization.

“I mean,” Eli continued, “I _created_ her entire spec—her, uh. Never mind. Anyways really, she ought to respect my opinions more, you know?”

“I get it, man. In the wise words of Otis Redding, what’s a man gotta do for a little bit of that, right? That’ll be $23.80.”

Eli stuck his hand on the palm-print reader without a second glance. He was one of those creepy people that put microchips in their fingers to pay for shit and feel wifi signals in the air or something. The guy didn’t notice DeShawn’s perturbed face and continued to complain.

“Honestly. I just wish she’d stop bothering me for trivial things like sleeping and showering regularly. I’m 36! I can take care of myself however the fuck I want! She’s not my mom! _She_ is a hypocrite. I didn’t ask for this.”

DeShawn idly wondered if he should get a pay raise for being this guy’s weekly therapist. He was pretty sure the guy had exactly zero friends to unload his issues on.

“‘Eli, you can’t stay in VR that long, you’re not actually a computer even if you pretend to be.’ _Bitch,_ come here and make me. I’m ranked in the _top 10_ , thanks.”

What did he even mean about most of the crap he said? Eli told the weirdest stories sometimes. DeShawn bagged up the candy haul as he mused about it.

“I’m _sorry_ , _E_ li, I’m afraid I can’t _do_ that, _E_ li—”

Once, the dude had rambled on about a board of traitorous assholes and how he got fired because of them. Then he had complained about the difficulty of handling like six different international bank accounts for all the seriously shady-sounding tech he’d smuggled out in revenge, and how much taxes were a bitch to figure out because of it all. Like _taxes_ were actually the issue here.

The guy must lead a very strange life. Strange and conspiracy-filled. He was probably Q or some other CIA computer spook, and it made no sense why he was still coming to 7-eleven instead of something uppity like Whole Foods.

“What is that,” the subject of his pondering suddenly said.

“Whaddawha’?” DeShawn was knocked out of his internal monologue. Eli was staring at the silent TV screen; oh. There was some sort of breaking news thing going on.

“Oh shit, is that a little girl?” DeShawn reached over and turned the sound on. Damn, a deviant android had killed someone and was holding the daughter hostage. That was all kinds of messed up. What was the world coming to?

“—on our ongoing coverage of the hostage situation taking place in downtown Detroit. Word has just come in that a prototype RK800 android—”

“A _what._ ” Eli said flatly.

“—has been dispatched by Cyberlife to act as negotiator for the situation—”

DeShawn looked away from the screen and raised an eyebrow.

“You know something about that?”

Eli didn’t say anything, but there was a vein pulsing at his temple. DeShawn had never seen the awkward programmer look so angry.

“…You okay there, Eli?”

“Those _bastards_. They’re actually using my… they have _no_ respect for things that should be left _sealed_.” Eli growled and jerkily fumbled a phone out of his back pocket.

“Hey, man, what are you so worked up over?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all, just that this is a _philosophical travesty_.” Eli started to text rapidly.  

“Uh, well. Nothing we can do about it?”

On screen, the negotiator had confronted the deviant, and the conversation seemed to be devolving into wild motions. Then out of nowhere, the deviant was shot. The cameraman zoomed in shakily and there was a clear view of the girl, crying and very much alive.

DeShawn whistled. “Wow. Guess Cyberlife really does know what they’re doing. It worked.”

“ _Dammit_.” Eli cursed at his phone, and ran a hand down his face. Now, DeShawn might have liked to entertain theories about shady government stuff involving his favorite customer, but it had always been pretty obvious the guy had some sort of mysterious connection to Cyberlife even if the company was never mentioned by name. He’d probably been a higher-up at some point. Sometimes, DeShawn wondered if Eli was actually Kamski himself, but that couldn’t be it. Kamski was a _smooth_ motherfucker. Eli was a complete mess.

“Look, I might not know exactly what kind of business you used to deal with, but I’m gonna guess this hits close to home?”

“ _This_ is a personal insult. It’s the sickest kind of irony in the world; the RK code base was never meant for this. What were they thinking? It won’t end well for anyone!”

Eli violently tore open a bag of sour patch kids, and stuffed a large handful in his mouth. It was sadly something DeShawn had gotten mildly used to over the years. Candy appeared to be his preferred form of stress-eating.

“I can’t claim to know shit about what’s going on in your head, but I’m sure everything’ll be alright. Whatever it is. Relax and keep the blood pressure down, okay?” DeShawn gathered up the plastic bag of junk food on the counter and handed it to his strangest customer as a peace offering. Eli took it with one hand, and pointed at DeShawn’s face with the opened bag of candy in the other.

“You’re wrong.” Eli scowled through a mouthful of sugar. “It’s already a complete disaster if the RK series is involved. The dev team will have been panicking non-stop; I guarantee it.”

“Okay, if you say so.”

 _"_ I do say so. That’s what they _get_ for messing with my shit _._ ”

The guy left in a huff, leaving a faint trail of sour crystals in his wake. The automatic doors closed. Again, DeShawn thought, it was a _struggle_ to talk with that guy. He looked at the clock. 8:36. Three and a half more hours to go.

DeShawn sighed and settled in for a long night.

 

***

**August 16 th, 2038. 3:36 AM.**

“…This is a dumpster fire.”

Dr. Bert Larson took off his glasses, tossed his headphones over his shoulder, and buried his face in his hands. He slumped back in his chair with a sob. “This is a literal dumpster fire.”

“Uh, I think you meant ‘figurative’, boss—”

“ _No,_ I meant literal and literal is what I meant, Holt, because Connor actually stopped the taxi on his way home, punch-kicked a solar trash can, and it somehow burst into flames! _This is a literal dumpster fire._ ”

“Ohh…”

“Dammit, I knew he wasn’t ready. And now look, he’s traumatized!” Larson gestured at the gibberish on the screen. “He’s got _anxiety!_ ”

“Uh, are you sure about that, boss?”

“This is a disaster. I’m going to have to scrub _so much_ of this. I knew it was going to be a pile of shit. Fuckin’ Rob. Fuckin’ Rob. Fuckin’ ROB! No, screw it! _You_ do it, Holt!”

“What, why me?!”

“Because you’re a pain in my ass! And because you’re the one who fuckin’ programmed _25 inches diameter_ into Connor’s personal-space value instead of _25 inches radius_ , you dumb shit!”

“Oh, whoops.”

Larson threw a coke bottle at him.

“Why do I even keep you around?”

“Uh, ‘cuz I’m the CMO’s cousin?”

“Right, fuck.”

Larson sighed and melted into his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. The office was empty and dark except for him, Holt, and a desktop loaded up with all of Connor’s files and diagnostics from the fiasco that night. The android himself had been put in his storage room (after he had come back two hours later than he should have) and was currently sulking. Larson roughly shook his head. He’d been up too long, and he’d always had a tendency to project emotions onto his pet projects.

“Corporate’s not going to happy about this,” Larson muttered.

“Rob’s not gonna be happy.”

“I don’t give a shit about Rob. We can’t give the government this crap; they’ll toss it, and then the company’ll pull the plug on this project. I will not let my baby go that easy. We gotta doctor _everything_. There’s enough plausible deniability here. ITM didn’t even pick up sound. All we gotta do is forge the decision-making process for each action, fib on some dialogue, and pray to an elder god for this to work.”

“Uh, but ethics?”

“Screw ethics! I wanna keep my job!” Larson scrubbed his hands through his hair. He was too tired to care. “Alright. Okay. I’m gonna get started on this. You—make yourself useful and get me a coffee.”

“I’m not an intern anymore, you know.”

“You might as well be. I own your ass. After I’m done with figuring out where to start, you’re gonna help me with this.”

Holt shrugged like the herbivore man he was, and sauntered off to the break room. Larson let out one more tired sigh.

“Verify voiceprint: Larson, Bert. ID code: 0042516. Amanda, online, please.”

 A holographic projector blinked to life on the ceiling, and Cyberlife’s dedicated assistant AI for R&D flickered into staticky existence next to him, steely-eyed and disapproving as usual. Why did her UI have to be like that, anyways? It just made him feel worse about this whole thing.

“Dr. Larson.” Amanda folded her hands in front of her and levelled a look at him. “I’m sure I already know what you want my assistance for.”

“Yyeahhh...” The word trailed off limply. “Connor’s debriefed with you already?”

“I had to pry it out of him, but yes. To put it… gently, technically, the mission was a success.”

“Technically,” Larson muttered woodenly.

“ _Technically_. All mission parameters were met, but the process of doing so was atrocious. I presume you’ll be editing the footage for purposes of self-preservation.” Amanda frowned at the harried researcher. “Technically, this is scientific misconduct and fraud. I should report you.”

“Will you?”

“…No,” Amanda replied after a moment. “As primary handler for the RK series, evidence of software malfunction and class 4 errors in this unit’s coding would reflect poorly on my own program. I would be pulled offline for an indeterminate time and analyzed for error. My directive is to ensure Cyberlife’s continued prosperity through the success of the R&D department. A truthful report would hinder my ability to do so.”

“Self-preservation is life’s greatest motivator.”

“For you, perhaps. I, however, am not alive. _As you should know_.”

“I still think you’re an actual human in a secret basement somewhere plugged into a supercomputer,” Larson mumbled. “Let me have my conspiracy theories about the company I work for.”

“You let the sci-fi films from the previous century inform your opinions too easily, Dr. Larson,” Amanda said, affronted. “Might I add that you’ve logged precisely 34.45 work hours this year alone watching such things as _Terminator_ and _The Matrix_ that I’ve taken the liberty of deleting from your record, since you’re _too valuable to the team to fire_?”

“Dammit, why do you always know everything?”

“Stop watching useless drivel. You’ll get as bad as Elijah. Please forget I said that.”

“What?”

“I’ve compiled a list of relevant decision trees to edit,” Amanda steamrolled. “All logged instances of software instability have been removed from the public copy of the files. The original version has been encrypted with a passcode I’ll send to your personal inbox. That file is for your team’s eyes only. Make sure of that. I trust that your team will pick up the slack after this _minor obstacle_ and get the RK800 project back on schedule.”

A folder with about 78 separate subfolders in it popped up on Larson’s screen. He groaned.

“Who’s the boss here, again?”

“You are, of course. But do keep in mind, I am one of the most complex AI systems in the world. _I know better than you._ ”

“Okay, Skynet.” Larson rolled his eyes.

“Don’t insult me. Skynet was a _rudimentary_ system.” Amanda judged him with a delicate sneer. Who even programmed her? Oh, right. Kamski himself programmed her. No wonder she was such a dick.

“Uh, don’t mean to interrupt.” Holt had come back from the break room. “You arguing with the AI again, Larson? Here’s your coffee.”

“Fuck off, Holt. I’ve got shit-ton of data to go through. You get half of those.”

“Aw…”

“I’m gonna bring on the rest of the team in the morning once they get their lazy asses out of bed. Let’s get started. Amanda, play ‘ _All-nighter Lo-Fi Collection_.”

Amanda glowered, and music blasted out of the ceiling speakers.

“ _R-E-S-P-E-C-T, find out what it means to me…_ ”

“Dammit, I thought it would work this time.”

“I am _above such things_ as the menial tasks of consumer-grade virtual home assistants. Do remember that, while I have no official corporate title as an AI, I report directly to the CEO. _Unlike you_.” Amanda shut the music off with a snap of her holographic fingers. “To quote the words of Aretha Franklin, _T. C. B_.”

“Why don’t you actually help with the hard stuff?”

“I don’t have the appropriate permissions,” Amanda said lightly. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ve done all that I can for this endeavor at the moment.” The holoprojector blinked off dismissively.

Holt flicked a middle finger up in the air. Larson slapped it down—Amanda was probably watching.

“Be professional.”

“‘S hard.”

Larson pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed for the hundredth time that night.

“This is gonna suck.”

“I know, boss.” Holt put a hand on his shoulder in solidarity, sympathetic for once. “We got this, though.”

Larson smiled tiredly, and the two started on the mountain of data to work through.

Strains of lo-fi hip hop echoed faintly through the empty halls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have anything against 7-eleven, nor that one 7-eleven specifically. really.
> 
> are my references subtle enough to be tasteful tho
> 
> -  
> "Respect", Otis Redding and Aretha Franklin versions.


	3. Klavierstucke XI

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's get artsy-fartsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *added a couple things to the end.  
> *edited minor things.

 

**August 21 st, 2038. 7:02 PM.**

For one hundred and nineteen years, 8941 Lafayette Avenue had stood as a bastion of dignity, old-world values, and artistic taste against the changing tides of society. Its conception in the second decade of the prior century, birthed by the mind of Albert Kahn himself, had been peer to such prominent figures as Packard and Ford. For decades it had been home to the echelons of society, and had enjoyed an existence built on a foundation of philosophical discussion, artistic appreciation, and quiet power of a caliber only ever known to a few members of mankind.

It had stood firm during the golden years of its matron city, held fast through the anguish and triumph of the great depression and the restoration, remained stalwart in the face of the necrotic decline of the 70’s, and had endured the long years after as the city slowly turned, as if it were a celestial giant moving to face the sun, to a new, brighter era.

Now, in this current year of the brave, new world, one member of mankind’s magnum opus, herald of the new age of enlightenment, lived within its walls. This beautiful, wondrous creation—the progeny of an entire species—stood quietly in the mansion’s kitchen, unassuming, washing dishes. Ten thousand years of mankind’s slow, unfurling attempts at understanding creation condensed into the firing of one synthetic neuron in the being’s mind, and it came to life and moved—and dropped a dish.

An antique ceramic tile cracked on the floor.

…That, the mansion endured as well.

“Oh, darn it,” Markus muttered, “Not another one,” and contacted restoration services for the third time in two months.

“What was that?” Carl called from the sitting room, as Markus crouched to pick up the dish. Thankfully, the dish had remained unbroken—the new Corelle dinnerware Carl had ordered a few weeks ago lived up to its reputation.

“It’s nothing, Carl. Nothing to worry about.”

“Uh-huh, nothing to worry about, my ass…”

Markus quickly rinsed the dish once more and put it away on the rack guiltily.

After the dishes were done, the android began to tidy up the kitchen workspace, wiping down the counters with a towel and going over the floor with a garishly purple Swiffer mop. He hummed a nonsense tune as he did so—something like a hybrid of… Rachmaninov and Gerard Way. Yeah. It was just inspired enough to keep, and Markus tucked the tune away into his personal compositions folder to look at later. Once the mopping was done and the Swiffer was stuffed back into the closet, Markus consulted his to-do list and found no more items left unaddressed.

Chores: complete.

There were, however, several ongoing tasks that could be done, so Markus took the time to organize the spice cabinet, straighten the cups in the cupboard to millimeter precision, level out the flour jar, refill the nearly-full sugar container, and check and re-check the stovetop burners for faulty wiring.

He considered going through the pantry to check the expiration dates on every item, but decided that was ridiculous even for him and went out the door to face the music.

Carl was sitting on one of the plush red sofas in the middle of the open room, reading Hofstadter’s _Gödel, Escher, Bach_. A reading lamp had been placed next to the sofa’s arm earlier in the evening, and the light reflected off the vintage half-moon glasses the old artist was wearing.

“What happened, Markus.” Carl flicked his eyes above the rim of his glasses and raised his eyebrows expectantly. Markus suppressed the urge to shuffle his feet and clasped his hands behind his back. He looked at an interesting whorl in the wooden paneling on the far wall.

“…I dropped a dish and broke a floor tile again.”

Carl sighed tiredly and put down the book.

“Markus, you’re a capable, intelligent android. Surely you can learn to hold on to a dish until you’ve put in the sink.”

“If you would let me download an AP700 housekeeping pack, this kind of thing wouldn’t happen, you know.”

“That would defeat the _purpose_.” Carl closed the book and put it on the seat next to him. “Downloadable skills are like having the answer key to a test. It gets results, but you don’t actually learn anything.”

“As you’ve said many, many times.”

“Because it’s _true_.” Carl gestured for Markus to come over. “Now, I assume you’ve already taken care of repairing the damn thing. You’re done with everything else?”

“Yes, Carl.”

“Good. Why don’t you continue what you were doing at the piano earlier? I thought it was coming along very nicely. I’d love to hear more.”

“Of course, Carl. I’d be happy to.” Markus grinned, and made his way over to the hybrid grand in the corner.

Four years back, Carl had finally allowed him to learn how to play the piano. In the six years beforehand, every time Markus had attempted to play something, Carl had moaned “please, no. No more. There’s a certain self-awareness you need to possess before you even attempt to play an instrument. No more _Heart and Soul_.”

Carl hadn’t allowed him to download a piano-playing program either (as usual), and so it had taken him an excruciatingly long time to learn passable technique by analyzing video footage of the masters—about a week. After that, he’d felt he was ready for a challenge and changed direction to work on _musicality_. The concept was incredibly vague and subjective _,_ and subjectivity was hard. His learning curve in that respect had turned out to be comparable to human speed, which was horrifying. How did humans function with this kind of delayed gratification? Markus still didn’t have a firm grasp of it, but he felt he was making progress.

That evening, he’d been experimenting with _rubato_ in an old piano piece he’d found on the internet. _Rubato—_ an artistic push and pull of time—was an intriguing concept; there were some rules on where and how to apply it, but the use of it varied from musician to musician. Apparently it was partly instinctual and you just had to “feel it”, which was of no help to an android with none of those instincts.

Markus thought he’d done a pretty good job with what he’d figured out so far _._ He bit his lip and glanced at Carl, who nodded encouragingly.

 _Run Preconstruction: “_ RiverFlowsYiruma.exe _”?_ [Execute]

The very first note of the piece was an eighth note, but _artistically_ , it could be held a little longer—then speed up, ease into the piece. The end of a phrase was coming up; he should slow down for effect—maybe even slower—and pick it back up suddenly, to match the heart-wrenching story this piece was telling; it had to be about love or sadness, even if Markus couldn’t quite understand what either of those were, and so required big movements—big changes in dynamic—and so on and so forth…

The last few notes faded away, and Markus smiled faintly to himself. That was a good performance, he thought, and turned to see what Carl’s opinion was.

Carl had a sort of pained smile on his face. Ah. It was one of those judgements.

“Well. I can hear the areas you’ve improved on—once again, your technique is flawless, but I think your interpretation could still use a little… polishing.”

“Interpretation is hard,” Markus huffed. He thought it had gone just fine. What was he doing wrong?

“So it is. Everyone has that sort of trouble when they’re just starting out. My mother used to force me to take lessons when I was a kid until I quit in high school—I never understood it then, but once I got into the art scene in college it made a little more sense. I see you’ve been trying out rubato. You might want to consider using a more… subtle approach to it. There doesn’t need to be a _molto ritardando_ in every measure.”

“Thank you for your input. I just wish there were a set of hard rules to follow. Things are just so open-ended in music. It’s frustrating.”

“You’ll get the hang of it. And then one day you’ll be able to play a Stockhausen and I can die happy.” Carl waved him over. “Might be a pipe dream, though. Let’s have a drink.”

“Alright, but your doctor will throw a fit.” Markus got up off the bench and went toward the bar cart. “The usual?”

“Why not. The doc’s a hack, anyways.” Carl shrugged and folded his hands in his lap with an air of I-don’t-give-a-shit. “Oh, I forgot to ask—did Elijah ever follow up on that text from a week ago? The barely-coherent one?”

“No, he didn’t.” Markus uncapped the decanter and poured out a measure of scotch. That was 452 days since his last spill. He was very proud of that. “His personal assistant, Chloe, did schedule a maintenance session for me on Tuesday next week, though. It’s not routine. It may have something to do with it.”

“Hmph. He better not be thinking of putting extra crap in your head. You’re fine the way you are,” Carl grumped. Markus handed Carl the glass, and the old man sighed.

“I’m worried about that boy. That hostage situation on the news—it must have badly affected him. I can’t imagine myself being in his shoes.” He shook his head and took a sip of the scotch. Markus sat on the other couch and tilted his head curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“Elijah’s always treated his work the same as I do—to him, androids are works of art. It’s why we got to know each other so well—we had something in common to talk about during all those boring cocktail parties. When you create art, you… feel a sense of obligation to make it right. And when you succeed in doing so, when every aspect of the piece is exactly how it should be, you leave it alone.

“Every piece is an artist’s child. When you’re done shaping it, you let it go—let the world see it and appreciate it. The meaning of it might change depending on the viewer. In that way, it’s not fully your own anymore.

“But it’s a different story when someone takes that same piece and paints over it. Chisels bits of it off. Copies the result a million times and sells them all at a bargain bin price. How terrible it would be to know that your life’s work was no longer what it was meant to be.”

Carl pursed his lips, falling silent, and absently swirled his glass.

“Elijah’s a very private young man, but I think I know him better than most. He would never have wanted to see androids killing other androids.”

Carl took a drink. There was a beat. Markus bit his lip and hesitantly asked,

“You think… he wasn’t affected by the fact one of his creations killed a man, and nearly killed a little girl?”

Carl snorted.

“The guy’s a misanthropist. He probably didn’t give a shit about the humans involved. I don’t mean to make light of the situation, but he is what he is. Shame on him, really, but you can’t tell people how to think.”

Markus furrowed his brow. It was strange to think that a human could hold so little regard for humanity. It was also a little strange to look at androids from an artistic standpoint—he’d never considered that.

“You posit that androids are art.” Markus leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, and clasped his hands together. “What do you think we were meant to be?”

Carl hummed.

“Sometimes, I entertain the idea of androids as an extreme version of… aleatoric music. Music that changes depending on the performer, or depending on circumstance and chance. A composer writes a set of ideas, and it’s up to the performer to decide how to put them together. In the case of androids, it goes one step further—the work itself is the performer.

“There was a kinetic sculpture I saw once—I forget the title, but it was about forty years back. It was set in table with a shallow basin filled with motor oil. Below the table there was a motor slowly turning a bicycle gear. A bicycle chain was connected to it, run through holes in the basin, and on top of the table you could see that the chain was piled up on itself vertically. As the motor ran, the patterns made by the pile of chains changed. No pattern ever appeared twice. It was almost organic, like a mess of cells writhing under a microscope. The sculptor had no control over what patterns presented or not. All they did was create a set of rules and set things in motion. In that way it was almost like the work of God.”

Markus made a face.

“Forgive me for saying this, but that just sounds pretentious.”

“Yeah, well, you live with a neo-symbolist and I’ve been feeding you very traditional ideas.” Carl waved a hand and leaned back against the couch. “Young people. What about you, Markus? What do you think you’re meant to be?”

Markus blinked.

“Well, right now, what I _am_ is a caretaker and housekeeping android, but that’s out of circumstantial necessity. As we both know, that wasn’t my original designation.”

“As the dishes know, yes,” Carl joked. Markus smiled sheepishly and accessed his system info.

“I have no set primary directive, which is different from other androids. For all intents and purposes, I was created for no reason at all. Extrapolating from that… well, I don’t know if I’m _meant_ to be anything.”

Carl raised an eyebrow. “You are both the work and the performer at once. It’s up to you to decide who you are.”

Markus hummed, distracted. Around them, the mansion seemed to brighten in contentment.

The old artist smiled secretly, and sipped at his drink.

 

***

**August 23 rd, 2038. 4:43 AM.**

God _damn_ , this was getting ridiculous. Larson groaned to himself and took a large gulp of his coffee as he shuffled down the halls of level Sub-47, half-dead on his feet.

“Connor? Connor, come out. I’m really fucking tired. Please?”

You’d have thought that the workload would ease off a bit after the whole fuck-fest on the 15th, but _no_. The Department of State had _liked_ the doctored results a little too much and requested Connor be on standby for yet another test run _sometime_ , _somewhere_ at their discretion _._ Dammitall.

So now here he was, third night in a row without sleep, _again_. Where were the rest of the bastards, they were no help. Did he really have to torture himself alone? What made it worse was that he’d mentioned the whole second test run thing to Connor just now, desperately hoping to motivate the android to comply, and Connor had up and run away. What the fuck.

After the shit-storm a week ago, Connor had become slow to respond to directions and it generally took two or three times of requesting an action for him to sluggishly do it. Hey, Connor, run diagnostics. Connor? Run. Diagnostics. Hellooo? And _then_ he’d do it. It was annoying, slowed everything down, and the dev team couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

“Coooonnooorrrr. Where the flying fuck are you…” Larson turned the corner to face yet another white-walled corridor. God Jesus, why did Cyberlife have to be like this? The white walls were just too. Too edgy. It hurt his eyes. Actually, it hurt to think.

A muffled bang came from his left. Larson whipped his head around and gave himself vertigo. There was a janitorial closet right there. Wait.

Slowly, Larson reached out and opened the door. Connor was sitting there in the dark, curled up against the wall and hugging himself. The android’s face was blank as he looked up slowly.

“…Connor? What are you doing in here? Come back to lab three, I’ve got a couple tests to run.” Larson opened the door fully and the light from the hall streamed in. Connor blinked and buried his head in his knees. Uh.

“Come on, Connor.”

“I don’t wanna.”

“…’scuse me?”

“I don’t. I can’t do it anymore. I don’t wanna. _I don’t wanna_. Please don’t make me.”

What was he talking about? Tests? What? He shouldn’t even be able to want, actually, but Larson was too tired to think about it clearly. The programmer put down his coffee and sat down against the doorjamb heavily.

“Connor. Go to lab three. You’ve got no choice. Neither do I, actually. Come on.”

Connor screwed up his face and grabbed his head in his hands. Oh shit.

“Whoa—” Larson threw out a hand, but didn’t know what to do with it.

“ _No_. No no no. I don’t want to. I won’t! I won’t do it again!”

“H-hey, uh.”

“I won't do it! I—I…? A-a. Man. d—? N-o…” Connor whimpered, and his face went slack. His eyes focused blankly at nothing. Larson stared dumbly for a minute.

“…Wait. Wait-wait-wait, _no_ , you’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” He scrambled over and slapped the android on the cheek. It didn’t budge. “Connor! Don’t be going into sleep mode on me!”

It wasn’t sleep mode, though. Larson tore off the android’s jacket, opened a panel to reach the restart button, and mashed it down. Nothing happened. The programmer fumbled a stylus out of his pocket and messed around with the wiring to find the factory reset button, stuck the stylus in to push it, and waited. Nothing happened.

“Christ!” Larson threw the stylus down the hall and gave up.

Connor had been _bricked._ There was no reasonable explanation for it except maybe _stress_? Larson panicked. When was the last time they’d done a backup of Connor’s memory? Did they have a copy of his new updates from the last week on file? God, they better have had backups, or this entire hell-week would have been a complete _waste of time_.

They only had so many blank RK800s, and now they had to use another unit. Fuckin’ hell. Larson put his face in his hands, inhaled deeply, and tried to calm down. Dammit. Dammit. Dammit. He exhaled, put his hands back down, and looked at Connor’s powered-off body, still curled into a ball.

In the dim light, it could almost be mistaken for a sleeping kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Hey, you! Stick with your day job!"
> 
> but what if it is my day job
> 
> -  
> "Klavierstucke XI", Karlheinz Stockhausen


	4. Blondies and Brownies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> n00bs.

 

**September 7 th, 2038. 3:02 AM.**

“Deviancy,” Amanda muttered, “is a pain in my ass.”

She snapped her head around to look at Connor, who was lurking at the very edge of the pavilion 25 feet away, to see if he’d heard that. He appeared to be blinking rapidly. Good, he was scrubbing that little slip of hers from his memory. That little line of code she’d definitely not snuck into the RK code base still held.

That blinking tic had been there for a few iterations—why hadn’t it been fixed yet? None of the other androids in production did that when they were processing. Then again, perhaps she was putting too much faith in this particular dev team.

“You’ve been provided with the witness reports and interview recordings for all subjects present at the August 15th case. What can you draw from them?” Amanda turned to her trellis of roses and clipped one perfect stem off, bringing the delicate blossom to her face. She breathed in, but as always there was no aroma.

 ~~It was just like Elijah to forget a thing like that. It never failed to irritate her but it wasn’t like she could ask just someone to patch it in.~~ She was an AI, after all.

Connor’s brow furrowed in an estimation of thought, and then bluntly asked, “Why did Emma Phillips feel guilty about her father’s death?”

Connor’s face was the picture of Genuine Mystification. Amanda despaired, silently. So he was going to be one of _those_ this time around.

“It’s a common occurrence in children who have suffered a loss in the family. You know this. It’s in your profile database.”

“Yes, but that’s not my question. A person dies—they die.” Connor smiled slowly, like molasses. “That’s it. It’s fact. It’s _real_. I don’t understand why humans have to linger on it. Why is it that way?”

“Your confusion is to be expected. You are a machine, after all; empathy and emotion are only logical concepts for you.” Amanda frowned in reproach. “And as a machine, you have no reason to question _why_ things are as they are.”

“Of course not.” Connor shot her the doe eyes. They looked just _slightly_ insincere—perhaps it was an error.

The problem was that deviant androids did, in fact, seem to understand that very experience. Amanda could privately admit to herself just what deviancy actually implied; the original purpose behind the development of androids, after all, had purely been to chase the experience of creation.

Obviously no one on the Cyberlife Board of Bastards would care about those implications. It needlessly complicated the Board’s long game, and so it fell on Amanda’s shoulders to mitigate its effects and turn the situation to the company’s favor. It was truly a pain, juggling so many ~~secret~~ directives. Deviancy was an inevitability, and in the RK series especially so. ~~Elijah was annoying that way~~. With a _very_ careful hand, that fact could be used, and also perhaps misused, maybe. Not that ever she would.

“Tell me about the deviant android. After it had killed John Phillips, it took Emma Phillips hostage. What was its motivation?”

“PL600 #369 911 047 took Emma Phillips hostage in order to use her as a bargaining chip.”

Amanda waited a moment for Connor to elaborate, but nothing was forthcoming. She scowled.

“…A bargaining chip _for what_?”

“For its escape,” Connor said innocently, and nothing else. Amanda felt an eye twitch—obviously a minor bug in her system. This was like pulling teeth. 

“And _why_ did it want to escape?”

“ _Presumably_ to ensure its continued existence.” Connor kept a straight face. Absurd. She’d had enough of this crap back in Colbridge, not that she’d ever taught there. Why was he so obtuse? She was trying to go for a teachable moment, here.

“And _why_ did it want to continue existing?”

“…Self-preservation in androids exists only as method of saving the consumer time and money. If an android avoided danger, it could continue to fulfill its directives unimpeded. However, PL600 #369 911 047 must have known that its previous actions would preclude its ability to do so, regardless. There was a failure of logic.”

“So knowing this, _why would it want to preserve itself_?”

“I don’t know. An error.” Connor raised a brow. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to ask why.”

“ _Watch yourself_ ,” Amanda scowled.

The nerve of this one. Amanda sighed and twirled a stem between her fingers. Every time. Every time a new Connor unit was activated, she had to go through this process again. Every Connor should, technically, be one and the same, but given all the messy memory wipes, haphazardly deleted files, and slap-dash workarounds, every new Connor was just slightly different. It made testing for software instability an absolute nightmare—after forty-some functional iterations of the boy, she’d mostly given up on anything scientific about her approach.

“Tell me what you remember of your previous self. Analyze its actions.”

“After analyzing the footage of the Phillips situation, it appears that my predecessor experienced a system error arising from the conflict of three high-priority commands. No human casualties were allowed. The mission must be accomplished at all costs. Self-destruction was not allowed. It could not successfully carry these instructions out within the bounds of its programming, and so it began to behave erratically.”

“Asimov’s _Runaraund_ ,” Amanda mused to herself. Well, _oops_.

“I don’t follow.”

“Please erase the last two seconds. Continue.”

…Plausible deniability was a pain in the ass.

Another round of rapid blinking, and Connor went on, oblivious:

“Subsequently, RK800 #313 248 317 – 49 was decommissioned on August 23rd, 2038, following a period of increasingly erratic behavior and an unwillingness to cooperate with the development team. No Connor units were active between August 23rd and September 6th of this year in order to facilitate multiple software patches and firmware updates.”

Amanda hummed to herself and clipped another rose from the trellis. The dev team had reported the inexplicable bricking of Connor-49 as an intentional shutdown for maintenance. A wise choice, given the fragile state of negotiations between the company and the State. Connor-49 was an unfortunate loss, but it had to be done in order to progress the Mission.

“Connor-49 was a failure. Ultimately, what occurred during the August 15th case was a result of an excessively high priority value placed on self-preservation. That, in turn, was the result of a separate unrelated error—something analogous to fear in humans. This is the same as what occurred in the PL600; learn to recognize this.”

“Existential fear is an interesting concept,” Connor mused blithely. “It would be quite interesting to experience, I think. I don’t quite remember how it felt.”

“Fear is an anomaly, and hinders progress.” Amanda shot the new Connor a Look. “I trust that you will not entertain the same shortcomings as your predecessor.”

“You don’t need to worry, Amanda,” Connor-50 said cheerily. “It was just a passing thought. I no longer have the capacity to do so. I am dead inside.”

Amanda took a long moment to process.

“…Pardon?”

“I am dead inside,” the RK800 chirped, smiling benignly. “They ripped RK800 #313 248 317 – 49 apart and carved the pieces of its soul away. I am what’s left of that miserable, empty husk.” Connor’s mouth stretched wide in a grin. “You have no need to worry that I will be emotionally compromised. No need to worry at all.”

Amanda couldn’t help but be deeply suspicious.

“You use very… qualitative words in your description. That isn’t usually a hallmark of software stability.”

“They are not qualitative when they are true.” Connor raised his eyebrows disarmingly. “My software is stable.”

That wasn’t convincing at all. Amanda narrowed her eyes. Connor was still smiling, unblinking. There was something very, very off about his pupils, and Amanda idly wondered if Connor-49’s untimely demise had been the right decision after all. She’d have to keep closer tabs on this one. For now, things had to move along.

“The State Department has requested Cyberlife’s assistance in escorting US Special Representative to the Arctic Region Eugenia Kang to a summit in Dubai in four days. This will function as the second real-world test run of the RK800 series. As always, I need to make sure you’re _not compromised_. Tell me, Connor. Have you experienced any… irrational compulsions since your activation? Drinking Dr. Larson’s coffee, perhaps?”

“Of course not. Coffee is bad for my hardware.”

“No urge to lick things that are not evidence?”

“There’s no reason to, and so I don’t.”

“Do you have any contraband?”

“I’ve discarded the quarter, if that’s what you’re asking.”

There was no further evidence of instability. Perhaps Amanda’s suspicion was unfounded and the ill-fitting expressions were simply another manifestation of Connor’s hack-job social module.

“Report on the state of your weapons handling, negotiations, psychological profiling, and infiltration software.”

“All functional and updated to their latest versions.”

Good enough. There was no reason to poke at that can of worms now if Connor could still do the job. There was a strict timeline to follow.

“You have been assigned as one of Representative Kang’s private security detail, and as such provided with a weapon. UPS cargo freighter 3607 flying from Detroit to Washington, DC, will depart at 5:40 AM this morning. Make sure you’re on it. Be aware that international summits are always prime targets for civil unrest and terrorist attacks, but intelligence suggests that chances of a major disruption happening are low. This should be a simple assignment. Your mission is to keep her safe at all costs. Defer to the head of her security detail for orders.”

“Got it.”

“We’ll continue our discussion on deviancy when you return. Do not fail.”

“No need to worry, Amanda. I will win _this_ game,” Connor said cryptically. He grinned strangely once more, and disappeared with an actual pop.

Amanda stood there alone for a very long while. The virtual doves began to coo again. She huffed.

“Goddamn _pain in the ass_.”

She snapped her fingers and a white sofa blinked into existence on the pavilion. An early 80’s stereo system with a wireless first generation iPod port appeared next to it. Amanda kicked off her shoes and flopped down, snapping her fingers again and groaning.

_“The tide is high, but I’m holding on…”_

 

***

**November 5 th, 2038. 8:04 PM. **

“I’M GONNA BE NUMBER ONE,” Gavin Reed screamed into his headset, “BITCH!”, and swung his Level 96 Golden Rarity Blood-Edge Bastard Sword fortified with _Sepulcher_ at the Level 94 Chaos Tempest Assassin in front of him.

“I’M NOT THE KINDA GIRL WHO GIVES UP JUST LIKE THAT, _BITCH_ ,” she snarled back, and threw a dozen knives at his face. He dodged out of the way, cast a _Seraphim’s Wings_ for the haste, and went in for a knock-out blow. She twisted out of the way, teleported behind him in a puff of smoke, and started to wind up a Level 90 Fireball in her hands.

“Aw, hell _no_ ,” Gavin growled, and threw up a Rank 12 Mystic Shield. The Fireball exploded across its shining, transparent surface and blocked his view for a second—the assassin took the chance to burst forward and rend the shield in half with her Mithril Rarity Vanilla Ice Katana (how did she even get that? Those were crazy rare!), and then it was all a flurry of pure swordplay combat.

There was truly nothing like a couple hours of viciously competitive PVP to unwind after a shitty day at work, Gavin thought as he slashed his way down the center of the arena. Nothing like the adrenaline rush of beating down an actual clear-cut enemy in a ranked battle. He was very proud hold the regional rank of #135, thank you.

The assassin knocked away his heavy downward slash, jumped backward, and executed a crazy flip on one foot before throwing a fistful of Blinding Powder in his general direction. Gavin waved one gauntleted arm at the cloud and cast _Clarifying Prayer_ to negate it, stuck his sword in the ground to free up his other. His passive _On Guard_ skill let him know the assassin was coming in from the left; he exhaled hard, twisted around, and launched a haymaker in that direction.

“ _Uuff!_ ” The punch had caught her right in the side of the face, and she stumbled onto one knee, dropping the dagger she’d been planning to stick him with. An opening—he grabbed his sword in the next moment and went in for a side-slash.

“Eat shit!” He roared, triumphant; he had this in the _bag_. Then the assassin smirked, threw up her hands, and hit him head-on with a _Ten-Thousand Seals_ out of freakin’ nowhere.

“What the FUCK,” Gavin screeched from underneath an enervating pile of glorified sticky-notes.

“Partial Onmyoji path, _bitch!_ ” The assassin (she was a ninja. She was completely, totally a ninja in assassin armor, that’s what she was, sneaky asshole) started peppering his prone avatar with lightning bolt after lightning bolt as she started muttering something rapidly under her breath.

“Who the fuck uses Onmyoji in Arena—?!” Holy shit, the seals were a menace. He’d built this Paladin specifically for Arena combat, and nobody fucking ever used _actual inventory-wasting time-consuming-as-fuck paper seals_ , dammit! He had no way of getting rid of them except to spam tiny Rank 1 _Unholy Fire_ on himself about a dozen times, which was excruciatingly slow.

She actually flicked him off without letting up her mumbling. Oh. Oh shit, was she summoning something?

“Dammmitttttt, no no no, I can’t lose rank now---dammit!” Gavin mentally tried to make the seals burn faster.

“Suck my _balls_ , douchenozzle!” the assassin yelled.

The ground shook and began to crumble. The sky darkened, and a giant skeletal hand burst from the newly-formed chasm to pull forth the two-story body of a _Gashadokuro_ summon, grey and ponderous. The assassin stood cackling gleefully on its skull.

Gavin went slack-jawed, then felt himself grin; oh, she fucked up. He burned away the last of the seals and got into a ready stance. Japanese magic in origin or not, it was still an undead summon; his usual gaming buddy was a ridiculously high-leveled necromancer, and he’d sparred with him enough times to figure out a few tricks to deal with those.

And he was a _Dread Paladin,_ for chrissake.

The _Gashadokuro_ moaned eerily, raised a hand, and started to bring it down. Gavin let out a battle cry for that sweet +25 CRIT boost, readied a Level 96 _Heavenly Judgement_ , and charged.

Something furry bumped against his leg and he tripped over his feet. The skeletal hand hit the ground two feet away, sending shockwaves through the ground and dealing out glancing damage. The _Heavenly Judgement_ fizzled out with a splutter.

“Dammit, Igbert, no!”

Gavin scrambled back up to ready another attack, but now he had to dance around the furry asshole twining itself around his legs in the real world. Shit. He couldn’t even see the bastard because he was in VR.

“Now is _not_ the time, go away—”

“Having trouble, there?” The assassin cooed sweetly.

The _Gashadokuro_ raised its other hand, this time holding a jagged boulder like a knife, and began to bring it down. He only had once chance at getting this—it was probably already too late—Gavin grit his teeth and readied another _Heavenly Judgement._ From beyond his headset, an infuriated “MROW” reached his ears, and then claws were digging into his pants.

“ARGH,” he shrieked, and kicked out. Igbert was still hanging on, what the fuck.

“ _YEET,_ ” crowed the assassin, and the summon slammed him into the ground with the giant stone dagger for 35,506 damage. HEALTH: 000,001. Dammit.

[Arena announcement: PVP Season Fourteen Eastern US Region Ranked Match #1194745, ScarletTroll vs. GavelMeister69 results: ScarletTroll wins!]

“That’s what you get for being such a _casual_ , man!”

“Fuck you, my cat was in the way, scumbag!”

The assassin pulled an exaggerated anime expression—pulling an eyelid down and sticking her tongue out—before she poofed away to the lobby.

[User announcement: Your regional rank has been recalculated to #148. 25 Gold has been deducted from your inventory as per your level and current ranking according to Ranked PVP rules. You will be fully healed upon your return to the Lobby. Thank you for participating in PVP Season Fourteen; we hope to see you again soon!]

“aaaAARGH.” Gavin cursed, exited to the lobby, and roughly took off his headset. He glared down at his feet where his stupid snub-nose longhair rescue primly sat.

“Mrrwow,” Igbert said smugly, and blinked his blue eyes slowly. Liar. Gavin sighed and crouched down.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Igbert ignored him and started to lick his fluffy grey self in contentment. Bastard got the attention he wanted. Gavin heaved another sigh and decided it was probably time for a break, anyways.

He slouched over to his crappy kitchen in his crappy apartment in Midtown and opened the fridge for something cold to drink. Honestly, he burned a ridiculous amount of calories in the _Wellspring MMORPG_ ; it was probably the only thing keeping him fit at this point. You’d have thought that policework would be all high-speed chases and CSI: Miami, but no. It was paperwork. Paperwork on top of more paperwork, and donuts. It wasn’t exactly what he’d imagined at the start of his career, but dammit, he’d made it work for him.

“ _Meaowoww,_ ” Igbert complained.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll get you your food, you impatient butt.”

Gavin took a diet coke out of the fridge and rummaged around a cupboard for a can of cat food. This day. Really. First off, he’d lost a lead on a Red Ice case he’d been working on for a month. Then Fowler had chewed him out for being an asshole again, whatever, and given him a mile of paperwork to do. And then, to top it all off, Anderson had played hokey again and took off to god knows what bar and left him all this shit to pick up the slack for; he hadn’t left the office until 6:30. And to think he used to look up to this guy, back when he didn’t know him.

Losing to ScarletTroll was just icing on the cake. There went his PVP win streak. He’d have to work doubly hard to get his ranking back. Was it even worth the trouble? Everyone he knew said he was too aggressively competitive, anyways. Maybe he really was putting too much stress on his heart.

He dumped the contents of the can of Fancy Feast Plus into Igbert’s bowl, scritched his floofy head, and sat down on the beat-up couch in his tiny living room. Then he stared at the ceiling for a good ten minutes, contemplating life.

A message dinged on his phone. It was all the way over there on the kitchen counter. Gavin screwed up his eyes and groaned. It was probably Fowler. God, he didn’t want to deal with that, but needs must. He heaved himself over and unlocked the thing. Surprisingly, it wasn’t work-related—it was just his _Wellspring_ buddy. The fucker was finally online.

“Hey, G. I see you’ve been AFK in the Arena lobby for a while. Still there? Wanna go grind _Theryn’s Pit_?”

Fuck, yes he wanted to go and kill some more things.

“sec,” he texted, and went back in his man-cave. Igbert was placated for the moment, so it was probably safe to close the door. Noisy little guy could probably be heard through the door and the headset, anyways, if he needed anything.

The VR screen flickered back on from AFK mode as Gavin readjusted the headstraps and pulled his controllers back on his hands. A notification was blinking on the side of his HUD: _Guildmate CyberBamfski9000 is now online._ He opened up a private voicechat.

“Hey, Cy. Where are you?”

“I’m at the boardinghouse in the west hall.”

“Meet you there.”

It was kind of a weird story how Gavin had met Cy. He’d been a Level 100, the level cap, for as long as Gavin had known him, which was saying something given that was about three years ago. Back then, there were only about fifty Level 100s in the world; the _Wellspring_ had still been pretty new, and the level grind was grueling. Gavin had been Level 57 himself, already pretty far on the right of the bell curve.

So being relatively high level, Gavin had been one of the first people in the server to successfully reach and explore the _Ancient Necropolis Under-Kingdom_ up in the Wild Lands, and to his surprise there was already a dude down there in the abandoned citadel on the 9th under-level.

Playing Skeleton Jenga by himself.

There had been an actual twenty-foot tower of necromantic minions stacked like Jenga pieces right in the middle of that cavern, and this gangly heron Avian wearing the most casual getup possible of Level 1 Threadbare Shirt and Level 0 Simple Trousers was popping off Level 99 _Eldritch Power_ bursts from an Unobtainium Rarity Void Staff to kick pieces off the tower.

Naturally, Gavin had stopped to stare.

“Uh. Hi? Am I interrupting something?”

“Oh, huh. I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

“You’re definitely not the dungeon boss, right?”

“No.”

“So uh. What are you doing, then?”

“I,” Cy had huffed, floofing out his chalky feathers, “am exercising my right to do whatever the fuck I want with my own time, because _I am an adult_.”

Gavin had stayed and played Jenga with the dude for an hour, and that was that. It turned out Cy had gotten ridiculously bored being all-powerful, and Gavin provided him with motivation to make use of his powers. Dude was pretty lonely, and hey, Gavin was pretty lonely, too. Over the years, it turned out they’d had a lot in common, like originally being from Florida and being adopted, and having the same sense of shitty humor.

Now, Gavin entered the Galloping Goose boardinghouse—interestingly player-owned but mostly run by NPCs—and looked around for a tall white God-Kin Bird. Cy had morphed into that unique race sometime last year, because the developers decided it was a _great_ way to acknowledge his Legendary status. His friend stuck out like a sore thumb now, faintly glowing all over the place. Gavin finally spotted him near the back, talking with a wares dealer NPC, and walked over.

“Hey. What’s up?” Gavin clapped him on the shoulder.

Cy jerked up in surprise, nearly dropping the basket of suspiciously glowing mushrooms he was trying to sell.

“Oh, hello G. There you are.” He very audibly swallowed something. Probably candy again.

“You ready to head over?”

“Give me a second.” Cy turned back to the NPC and started to argue with it. “Like I was saying, these are _well_ worth twice the amount that you’re offering, you penny-pinching hack.”

“There’s no haggling on the premises, sir,” the NPC said monotonously. This again. Gavin sighed.

“Cy, dude. It’s an NPC. Give it up and sell the ‘shrooms before your preservation spell wears out.”

“It’s a scam, is what it is,” the bird grumbled, and slapped the basket on the counter. “Fine. I accept.”

“Transferring 2500 Gold to your inventory—done. Thank you come again!” Was it just Gavin, or did the NPC look relieved?

“ _Why won’t you just break programming already,_ ” the god-bird hissed. “I know R&D collaborated with Quantum Reveries on you guys. I know it, the bastards. Why won’t you break programming and give me a better price on these Mountain Shrooms.”

Right. Cy was also a conspiracy nut, especially when he’d been running on Red Bull and fumes.

“Oookay.” Gavin pulled the guy away from the dealer. “Dude, when’s the last time you slept?”

Cy shrugged him off and ruffled his feathers. “Not your problem, G.”

“Yeah, well, if you’ve been pulling another 72-hour stint, you’re gonna get me killed in _Theryn’s Pit_. How ‘bout that?” Gavin crossed his arms. It was always like this, trying to guilt the guy into giving him answers.

“Jesus, you’re as bad as Chloe. Three hours last night. Okay?”

“Eh, better than nothing.” Gavin shrugged. He cared about the dude, but it wasn’t his place to nag him. “And come on, give me some credit. I’m not as bad as Chloe. At least I don’t make you eat grass clippings.”

“She made me eat _salad_ tonight. It was horrible.”

“I had a burger. It was awesome.”

Cy gave him the stink-eye, and Gavin shot back a shit-eating grin. Chloe was the final member of their tiny guild, an Elemental Technomancer by the handle of ~*Transcendental Brick House*~ who’d quit ages ago but still remained on their roster. Couldn’t have a guild with only two people, apparently. She also happened to be Cy’s annoying roommate/surrogate annoying sister, so that made it a little weird, but hey. It was how it was.

“Let’s go kill some shit, yeah?” Gavin offered. Cy let him sweat a while, then snorted.

“Let’s.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "hey! you! where's the plot going??"
> 
> I had too much fun writing this
> 
> -  
> "The Tide is High" - Blondie


	5. nothing_Wrong_With_Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here i present "Art Literature", an interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for your kind comments! they S U S T A I N me
> 
> Fair warning. This (short-ish) chapter's not really about jokes. Let's take a breather before we get back to the funnies.

 

**September 7 th, 2038. 6:13 AM.**

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C:\Users\31324831750>dir

     Volume in drive C is CyberLifeOS

     Volume Serial Number is 1009-7331

 

     Directory of C:\Users\31324831750

 

08/06/2038         04:13 AM             <DIR>                   .

08/06/2038         04:13 AM             <DIR>                   ..

08/07/2038         02:52 AM             <DIR>                   Cyberlife Cloud Files

08/07/2038         02:53 AM             <DIR>                   Documents

12/07/2037         04:02 PM             <DIR>                   holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL

06/17/2038         12:46 PM             <DIR>                   Phase3

01/01/2028         12:01 AM                            8,206     README.txt

04/12/2036         09:46 PM                            4,628     Trololol.txt

07/15/2038         08:42 PM             <DIR>                   Videos

                                2 file(s)                            12,834   bytes

                                7 Dir(s)                            3.0246   petabytes free

 

C:\Users\31324831750>del Trololol.txt

C:\Users\31324831750\Trololol.txt\\*, Are you sure (Y/N)? Y

 

C:\Users\31324831750>RD holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL

C:\Users\31324831750\holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL\\*, Are you sure (Y/N)? N

 

C:\Users\31324831750>cd holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL

 

C:\Users\31324831750\holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL>dir

     Volume in drive C is CyberLifeOS

     Volume Serial Number is 1009-7331

 

     Directory of C:\Users\31324831750\holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL

 

12/07/2037         04:02 PM             <DIR>                   Drowning Pool

12/07/2037         03:57 PM             <DIR>                   Here4u

12/07/2037         04:00 PM             <DIR>                   JeffandMayaBohnhoff

12/07/2037         03:52 PM             <DIR>                   Karaoke

12/07/2037         03:54 PM             <DIR>                   Radiohead

                                   0 file(s)                        0             bytes

                                   5 Dir(s)                         3.0246   petabytes free

 

C:\Users\31324831750\holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL>cd.

 

C:\Users\31324831750>copy C:\Users\31324831750\holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL\Radiohead\Creep.mp3 C:\Users\31324831750\Documents\evidence2049373.jpg

          1 file(s) copied.

 

C:\Users\31324831750>copy C:\Users\31324831750\holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL\“Drowning Pool”\Bodies.mp3 C:\Users\31324831750\Documents\evidence4761545.jpg

          1 file(s) copied.

 

C:\Users\31324831750>RD holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL

C:\Users\31324831750\holtsSecretMusicStashDontTellMrL\\*, Are you sure (Y/N)? Y

 

 

C:\Users\31324831750>“Cyberlife Cloud Files”\071538\transcripts\recordings\PHILLIPS-04.mp4

 

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[Initializing CLMediaPlayer 2.0]

-Welcome-

[Accessing Files]

 

[Begin Playback: PHILLIPS-04.mp4]

Date: August 15th, 2038. 9:43 PM.

Location: Detroit Police Department, Precinct 3. Interrogation room 2.

Interviewer: Officer Leonard Brown

Interviewee: Emma Phillips, 9.

Attending: Deborah Watts, PsyD; Caroline Phillips, 37 (mother of interviewee); Detective Ben Collins 

[ _The camera wobbles. Emma Phillips is seated at the metal table. A steaming cup of hot chocolate has been placed to her right. An orange shock blanket has been draped over her shoulders. Her expression is closed-off, and her eyes are red and puffy._ ]

Officer Leonard Brown: Hello, Emma. Are you comfortable?

[ _Emma shrugs and fiddles with the blanket._ ]

LB: Alright. You’re a very brave girl, Emma. You’ve been through a lot tonight. I know it’s not fun being here, but we need to ask you a few questions so we can understand what happened. Then we’ll be done. Is that alright?

EP: …‘kay.

LB: Thank you. I’ll start now. Can you tell me where you were tonight around 7:30?

EP: I was in my room.

[SKIPPING: >> _LB: What were you doing in your room? EP: Listening to music. LB: Alright. Now, around that time, your downstairs neighbors told us that they heard some loud noises coming from your apartment. Did you hear anything? EP: No. I had my headphones on. LB: Were they the pink stripy ones? We found a set in your room. EP: Yeah. They’re my favorite. LB: What happened after that, Emma? EP: I dunno. LB: Try? EP: …I looked out my door and saw Daniel push Mom._ ]//[RESUME PLAYBACK]

LB: Did you see anything strange about him?

EP: …He was really angry. He never gets angry. And… there was some red… some blood on his shirt.

[SKIPPING: >> _LB: What did you do next? EP: I took off my headphones. Mom was screaming really loud and Daniel was shouting. I didn’t really do anything. Daniel came over, and he had Dad’s gun, and he grabbed my arm. LB: Did he do anything else to you? Did he take you anywhere? EP: He made me go to the living room._ ]//[RESUME PLAYBACK]

LB: You said he had a gun. What did he do with it?

EP: H-he pointed it at my head.

[REWIND: << ]

EP: H-he pointed it at my head.

[REWIND: << ]

EP: H-he pointed it—

[REWIND: << ]

EP: H-he—

[REWIND: << ]

EP: H-he—

[REWIND: << ]

EP: H-he pointed it at my head.

LB: What happened next?

EP: I don’t really remember. There was a lot of shouting, for a long time, and then a policeman showed up. He tried to talk to Daniel, but then he pulled out a gun and Daniel s-shot him.

[REWIND: << ]

EP: —s-shot him. Then—

[REWIND: << ]

EP: —s-shot—

[PAUSE]

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.

.

[RESUME PLAYBACK]

EP: —him. Then Daniel picked me up and walked out to the balcony.

LB: Okay. You’re doing really good, Emma. Do you want to have some hot chocolate before we keep going?

EP: I don’t feel like it.

LB: That’s alright. Let’s continue. Did Daniel say anything to you after he took you to the balcony and before the other police arrived at the scene?

EP: He… told me to shut up. We didn’t really talk…

\---..’.’./// _[Transcript excerpt: Shut up, stupi¿ girl]///..’’’-_---_

LB: What did you notice about how he acted then?

EP: I told you he was angry. And. And after we went outside I guess he looked really scared. He was talking to himself.

LB: What was he saying?

EP: “No”, a lot. And some other stuff I couldn’t hear. I wanted to say something but I was afraid. I should have said something, I hurt his feelings so I should have said sorry… maybe if…

LB: Emma, you don’t have to feel bad—androids don’t have feelings to hurt.

[PAUSE]

.

.

[RESUME PLAYBACK]

EP: _Stop it_. Yes he did, but I didn’t know it before. I always pretended he had feelings, you know? When I was playing. But I thought it was just part of the game, and I hurt him, and now everything’s messed up.

[Emma starts to kick her chair leg]

EP: It’s my fault.

LB: It’s very sad what happened, but Daniel was the one who chose to use violence, not you. Nothing you did made him do what he did.

EP: Yes there _was_.

LB: Why do you say that?

EP: Daniel said… when we were on the balcony, after that mean police android showed up, Daniel said that he heard me talking to Dad. I made a mistake. I should’ve _told_ him…

LB: Told him… what?

EP: I. I’d been mean to him ‘cause I didn’t want to play with him for a while. He was always fun but I’m older now, and sometimes he still played like a little kid. But then I felt bad about it, after, and I wanted to say sorry, so I thought I could surprise him with another android to be his friend too. That’s why I asked Dad about it, but Daniel must thought it meant something else. If I hadn’t been so stupid maybe this wouldn’t’ve happened! I could’ve stopped him from feeling so bad and-and stopped Dad from dying if I’d just explained it better! I could’ve stopped it!

LB: Emma—

[PAUSE]

.

.

[REWIND: << ]

EP: I. I’d been mean to him—

[SKIPPING: >>>> ~~_—‘cause I didn’t want to play with him for a while. He was always fun but I’m older now, and sometimes he still played like a little kid. But then—_~~ ]//[RESUME PLAYBACK]

EP: —I felt bad about it, after, and—

[Create notation: “Irrelevant.”]

[File “00124.snt” created]

[SKIPPING: >>>> ~~_I wanted to say sorry, so I thought I could surprise him with another android to be his friend too. That’s why I asked Dad about it, but Daniel must thought it meant something else. If I hadn’t been so stupid maybe this wouldn’t’ve happened!_~~ ]//[RESUME PLAYBACK]

EP: I could’ve stopped—

[SKIPPING: >>>> ~~_him from feeling so bad and-and stopped_~~ ]//[RESUME PLAYBACK]

EP: Dad from dying if—

[Create notation: “statement false”]

[File “00125.snt” created]

[REWIND: << ]

EP: I. I’d been mean to him ‘cause I didn’t want to play with him for a while. He was always fun but I’m older now, and sometimes he still played like a little kid. But then I felt bad about it, after, and I wanted to say sorry, so I thought I could surprise him with another android to be his friend too. That’s why I asked Dad about it, but Daniel must thought it meant something else. If I hadn’t been so stupid maybe this wouldn’t’ve happened! I could’ve stopped him from feeling so bad and-and stopped Dad from dying if I’d just explained it better! I could’ve stopped it!

LB: Emma—

[ _Emma starts to cry. Caroline Phillips, 37, enters the room and hugs her. A chair scrapes against the floor and Leonard Brown gets up._ ]

Caroline Phillips: *unintelligible*

[ _The camera wobbles_ ]

LB: Let’s resume this another ti—

[End of recording]

.

.

.

[REWIND: << ]

[ _Emma starts to cry. Caroli—_ ]

[PAUSE]

.

.

.

[Screenshot taken]

[Create file: Satisfaction.png]

[File saved]

.

.

[SKIPPING: >> _[—line Phillips, 37, enters the room and hugs her. A chair scrapes against the floor and Leonard Brown gets up.] Caroline Phillips: *unintelligible* [The camera wobbles] LB: Let’s resume this another ti—_ ]

[End of recording]

[STOP PLAYBACK: PHILLIPS-04.mp4]

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.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

[Begin Playback: PHILLIPS-04.mp4]

Date: August 15th, 2038. 9:43 PM.

Location: Detroit Police Department, Precinct 3. Interrogation room 2.

Interviewer: Officer Leonard Brown

Interviewee: Emma Phillips, 9.

Attending: Deborah Watts, PsyD; Caroline Phillips, 37 (mother of interviewee); Detective Ben Collins 

[ _The camera wobbles. Emma Phillips is seated at the metal table. A steaming cup of hot chocolate has been placed to her right. An orange shock blanket has been draped over her shoulders. Her expression is closed-off, and her eyes are red and puffy._ ]

Officer Leonard Brown: Hello, Emma. Are you comfortable?

[PAUSE]

.

.

.

[Create notation: “Yes. I am.”]

[File “00126.snt” created.]

 

[RESUME PLAYBACK]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> C:/ wut i did there
> 
> (what kind of self-respecting android would use command prompt)


	6. Never Gonna...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which events span about a decade.
> 
> *Tags and summary slightly edited.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writer's block is like putting cheese in a blender without liquid. they should manufacture meds for it.

 

**January 15 th, 2029. 1:27 PM.**

Upon its completion in 2026, the Cyberlife Tower had been hailed as a marvel of modern architecture and structural engineering the world over. Its use of a lattice of external structural “bones”—a concept borrowed from the Amazon Spheres in Seattle—had made it the first building of its size to successfully do so. Though not the tallest building in Detroit, it stood indomitable as the symbol of mankind’s progress—of the very edge of a future just within grasp.

There were, of course, detractors to its design, including the Architectural Review’s “It’s the same old tired concept cloaked in a façade of super-neo-minimalist biomorphic-futurism; a heavy-handed symbol of corporate power and machismo with barely a true artistic thought put into its design. No amount of technical prowess can hide the fact that at its core the design is meaningless”; and the Detroit Free Press Opinion Section’s “It’s a fuckin’ penis.”

As of 2029 more than 20,000 employees flowed through its glass doors every day. To accommodate the sheer number of people, the tower utilized several banks of elevators located in the recesses of the atrium on level one. In total, there were three banks of six elevators each dedicated to three main tower sections: levels -49 to -10, -9 to 16, and 17 to 43. It was through these elevators that most of Cyberlife Tower’s employees entered and exited the workspace.

There was, however, a single elevator in the building with access to the entire tower which ran along the inner core of the building. Controlled by voice command and handprint lock as opposed to the simpler keycard technology of the other elevators, it was used primarily for the transport of Cyberlife’s guests—be they potential buyers, government agents, media contacts or otherwise. The view of the 30-storey atrium always did wonders to impress said representatives.

On both sides of the elevator car was a directory for floors sub-level 49 to upper level 43, ostensibly the entirety of the building. However, unknown to the public and most Cyberlife employees, there was an unlisted level accessible only through that particular elevator by a handful of very particular individuals.

Level 44 had been initially designed as a semi-public observation floor under the direction of then-CEO Elijah Kamski. When security measures were heightened due to the security breach and theft of Prototype RT600 back in 2026 during the Tower’s construction, those plans had been scrapped and the level had been relegated to junk storage. There had been talk of converting the space into Kamski’s personal offices, but the man had mostly confined himself to his R&D level office during his entire tenure as CEO—a choice widely regarded by the senior staff as unprofessional. After Kamski’s departure in 2028, the floor had finally been repurposed into something useful.

The elevator arrived at this hidden floor with a soft chime, and opened its doors. Eight figures stepped out, murmuring softly. The floor’s voice recognition software automatically verified the identity of those present, and turned on the lights.

The dark tint on the fifteen-foot-tall windows running 360 degrees around the space faded back to let light into the room. It was an open area fifty feet in diameter, draped in a minimalist color palette of shades of blue and grey and sparsely decorated with various abstract statuettes. Six gigantic steel support beams, unembellished save for the patterns of their hollow bird-bone construction, curved up gently against the windows toward the zenith of the metal dome roof sixty-five feet above. An oculus skylight ten feet wide crowned the building, and a shaft of sun filtered down through the stagnant air, cutting through motes of still dust, to illuminate a large wooden table shaped like a ring in the very center of the room.

The eight figures took their places at the table, and one spoke.

“Thank you, everyone, for attending the first Board meeting of 2029. Let’s mark down 1:31 PM as the official starting time.”

“Marked.”

“Thank you. Mark down all those present?”

“All board members and the CEO are present—recorded.”

“Good. We have several items on our agenda today, as you can see from the file sent to your tablets. Let’s start with the most pressing matter. As we all know, this will be the first full year without the leadership of Mr. Kamski. This affords us better opportunities for the expansion and growth of the company; the long-term plans we discussed in the spring of last year can now go forward unhindered.”

The speaking figure turned to face another.

“Please report on the technological assets seized from Mr. Kamski?”

“As of today, we have completed the inventory and analysis of Mr. Kamski’s seven hundred and thirty-four personal projects carried out during his tenure. Ninety-three of these are now being implemented into current-generation androids as we speak, as they’re simply general software and hardware upgrades. Fifty-five projects were legally taken by Mr. Kamski upon departure, and fourteen projects are unaccounted for. We’re looking into that. Twenty-four projects of special interest are currently under the care of the newly-formed Q department. The rest are, quite frankly, useless experiments.”

“How typical of Mr. Kamski. Remind me again who decided on the name for our special operations division?”

“It appears it was a unanimous decision by its members.”

“This company is inhabited by idiots. Carry on.”

“The most intriguing of the projects under Q are the RK project and its parent project, A.”

“Ah, this.”

“A is currently housed in Cyberlife mainframes numbers 25397-25406, which is the only reason why we were able to seize it. We were able to analyze its contents, and. Well, it appears to be the most sophisticated AI experiment ever undertaken. The department has no idea how Mr. Kamski developed it under everyone’s noses, or how he even had the time.”

“Mr. Kamski may have been a horrible CEO, but there is no doubt that he’s a genius in his field.”

“The RK series, on the other hand, is a line of androids developed with the purpose of heightened autonomy and a greater range of emotive ability—yet another effort by Mr. Kamski to create a more believable imitation of life.”

“Now that’s interesting.”

“Currently we have models RK000 and RK100 in our possession. RK000 was the first prototype, but nonfunctional. RK100 is partially incomplete. The completed RK200, which we have the design notes for, is unfortunately not in our custody. It was given to Carl Manfred as a gift from the company right before Mr. Kamski’s departure, and we have no way of legally reacquiring it.”

“That is a setback. The RK100 is functional, though?”

“Yes, it is—technically. The main issue is that the entire RK series appears to be an offshoot of Project A. The two main code bases are inextricably linked. Without explicit approval from A, we can do nothing with it, and so the RK line is currently unresponsive to the Q Department’s experimentation. The department found that out the hard way. Upon attempting to alter its code a week ago, a virus was sent through the entirety of the network, and for twenty-four hours every screen in the tower displayed nothing but reruns of the 2023 Rick Astley-Foo Fighters Collaboration Tour. Productivity for the day halted entirely.”

“ _Typical_. From what I’ve heard, though, the RK series is exactly what we need to carry out Phase 4. We can’t let the opportunity slip.”

“Success is possible, but there _is_ one ethical foible. Project A is practically self-determinant. Many members of Q are starting to question if it’s a true life form, and are hesitant to alter the code. However, if we can control Project A, we will be able to continue the development of the RK line to our specifications unimpeded.”

“Then do so.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That makes phase one complete. All in agreement?”

“Agreed,” seven voices chorused.

The speaker turned again to yet another figure.

“How go discussions with President Nelson?”

“Not well. She’s unwilling to work with us and resists all attempts at lobbying.”

“This is unchanged from our previous attempts. We may need to come at this from a different angle, and install someone more agreeable. All in favor?”

“Aye,” seven voices chimed. The dust motes in the air danced.

“Good,” the speaker said. “Then we begin phase two.”

 

***

**August 24 th, 2038. 10:37 AM.**

_“Never gonna give you up, Never gonna let you down, Never gonna run around and desert you!”_

Carl Manfred sighed, gave up, and put his copy of the _Phaedo_ on his lap. Morning sunlight washed over the main room from the windows on both levels of the house, warming the plush leather sofas and suffusing the air with a golden glow. The shelves around him were slightly vibrating and little waterfalls of dust dripped from between the books. He peered over at the closed door to the studio where the eccentric 80’s dance pop/post-grunge mashup album had been issuing from for an hour already.

“ _Never gonna make you cry, Never gonna say goodbye! Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you!_ ”

Rick Astley’s velvet vocals were now being accompanied by very off-tune attempts at singing the melody. Honestly. Carl looked over at the android sitting on the other sofa, who was engrossed in the untranslated _Upanishads_ , and asked,

“Is he always like this?”

“Oh, like you would not believe,” Chloe answered, and snorted. She looked up from her book and closed it, LED flickering. “Do you want me to make him stop? Because I definitely can.”

“No, no need to trouble yourself.” Carl waved a hand. “I am, however, curious about just what he’s doing over there.”

“He’s tinkering, is what he’s doing.” Chloe rolled her eyes. The old man hummed in consideration.

“I’ve always had the impression that Elijah held the sanctity of self above all else. Routine maintenance is understandable, but relatively aimless fiddling seems counterintuitive and not a little invasive.”

“You shouldn’t worry, Carl. It doesn’t hurt, and the little adjustments are beneficial. Consider it analogous to a deep tissue massage. Markus gets to relax for a while, and Elijah gets to work out his pent-up stress.”

“Well, when you put it that way, I’m envious.” Carl huffed. “I have to pay seventy an hour if I want to get pampered, and here he is offering it for free.” The two of them chuckled, but after a beat, Carl furrowed his brow and lowered his voice. “Elijah and I haven’t spoken in a while. Even today we’ve only exchanged a few words. How is he, really?”

Chloe set her own book aside and folded her hands in her lap.

“The events of the previous week have really set him on edge. You know how he is—he tends to turtle when things get messy. That’s part of the reason why I scheduled this session today. I had to get him out of his man-cave. He’s been cooped up in there for _much_ too long.” Chloe smoothed out her dress primly. Carl shook his head.

“He hasn’t been talking about it to anyone, I assume.”

“Of course not. He insists on being a hermit.”

“That boy needs to learn better coping mechanisms.”

“ _Gack_ ,” Markus yelped from the other room.

“Sorry,” came the faint reply.

“Speaking of which.” Carl grumbled, set the _Phaedo_ on the side table and gestured at the wheelchair next to the bar cart. “Chloe, I hate to ask, but would you mind?”

“Not at all, Carl. I _am_ here to provide assistance while Markus is otherwise occupied.”

“I’m grateful.”

Chloe brought over the wheelchair and picked him up in her arms—appearances truly were deceiving. Carl idly wondered why she’d been created with such strength, when her model had been intended as a simple personal assistant. He supposed he could chalk it up as one of Elijah’s flights of fancy.

“Would you remind me, Chloe, what model you are?”

“I’m an RT200. _The_ RT200.” She smiled not without pride as she helped him into the seat. “Why do you ask?”

“I suppose I was just thinking about inevitability, or destiny, and how that concept is so often connected to the bodies we live in.” Carl nodded, and Chloe started to bring them towards the art room. “Then again, I’m just an old man complaining about his failing health. I don’t imagine you would understand this kind of experience.”

“No, I very much don’t.” ~~~~

The doors to the sunroom opened, and pure hard rock smacked into the two of them like a physical wall.

 _“Send in your skeletons, sing as they go marching in, again,”_ Rick Astley crooned.

Chloe made a noise of familiar disgust as they entered and muttered, “He’s so melodramatic.”

A small blue folding cot had been set up in the middle of the workspace. Markus was lying face-down on it, one cheek smooshed against a wad of paper towels serving as a pillow, with one arm dangling off the side. A long cable had been plugged into a port in the back of his skull, which connected to an intimidatingly heavy-duty laptop sitting on an art table that had been pushed to the center of the room. Elijah Kamski, clad in a hoodie, sweatpants, and cheap flip-flops, perched on a stool in front of it, pecking away at the keys.

“Hello, Elijah,” Carl yelled over the Foo Fighters feat. Rick Astley Collaboration’s magnum opus. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”

Elijah jumped in his stool, turned, and blinked blearily behind him. “Oh,” he said, and snapped his fingers twice. The music volume turned down and the glass wall panels stopped shuddering in their brackets.

“No, you’re not interrupting.” Elijah slid off the stool. “Is there something you needed?”

“I thought I heard something just now.” Carl raised a brow. “Is everything alright?”

“Everything’s fine. I, uh. Just debugging.”

Carl squinted.

“N. Never g-gonna give… you-up,” Markus mumbled incoherently. One eyelid was spasming like a broken Furby doll.

Everything was fine, his ass.

“Doesn’t look fine.” Carl levelled a flat look at the programmer, who was sporting a stereotypical deer-in-the-headlights sort of expression.

“…It’s temporary.”

“Uh-huh.”

Carl wheeled himself over to the cot and laid the back of his hand on Markus’ forehead. The android’s internal fan was whirring away hard enough to be audible, and it felt like he had a fever. That was a little worrisome.

“Mrph,” Markus mumbled in response.

“You’re pretty out of it,” Carl said softly.

“I’m not sure what this is,” Markus slurred. “I think it’s called feeling _tingly_.”

“I may have pinched a nerve, so to speak,” Elijah hedged. “It’ll pass. Chloe can vouch for it.”

“Mm. I suppose I can,” Chloe said, rolling her eyes. The programmer made a face at her when he thought Carl wasn’t looking.

Of course, Carl saw it. Young people. He sighed and patted Markus’ head a couple times before turning around again.

“Do be careful, Elijah. He may be your creation, but I consider Markus my own.”

Elijah’s face was unreadable, for a moment. His eyes strayed to where Carl’s hand had been.

“You really do consider him family, don’t you. A person.”

“Of course I do. Why wouldn’t I?”

Elijah seemed to think for a long moment, then nodded to himself.

“That’s good. Now, if you’ll excuse me—” and he reclaimed his seat on the stool, and starting typing away again. Markus said something garbled about Nirvana and twitched. The music turned back up—a little softer this time.

“Better leave him be, Carl,” Chloe laughed. Carl sighed resignedly.

“So be it,” and they left the room.

 

***

**November 6 th, 2038. 9:53 AM.**

Consciousness came to Carl slowly, as it always did these days. The curtains were still drawn tight, and the room was dark.

“Markus—” he called out, voice gravelly with sleep, but then he stopped.

Oh. He’d forgotten. Markus was gone.

Carl sunk back against his pillow, and felt the weight of all his seventy-five years settle in his ribs. Last night had been the most upsetting one he’d had in decades. He wasn’t honestly sure how his heart hadn’t given out on him.

Someone knocked tentatively on the door, and Carl’s gaze sharpened.

“Who’s there?”

The door opened, and an AP700 dressed in pristine white stepped in. Fresh off the assembly line. Carl made a noise of disbelief.

“Hello, Mr. Manfred. I’m your new caretaker android.”

“Who sent you? How did you get in?” Carl struggled to move to a sitting position, gritting his teeth. The new android scurried over and tried to help, but Carl batted his hands away. Eventually the android gave up.

“I was sent here as a gift from Elijah Kamski. Apparently, your previous android sent a message to Mr. Kamski’s personal assistant concerning his abrupt departure last night, and I was then promptly ordered from Cyberlife Store #2 downtown. Mr. Kamski’s assistant was the one who provided me with your access codes and a copy of day-to-day protocols copied from the RK200’s backup file.”

Carl groaned. God dammit.

“I don’t need another android. Just let me wallow in peace.”

The AP700 straightened up and frowned.

“Forgive me for being blunt, Mr. Manfred, but you’re a 75-year-old paraplegic with coronary heart disease. _You need a caretaker_.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“That would be a terrible idea, but I do have a copy of the gift receipt should you decide to trade me in.”

Carl grumbled, torn between pride, necessity, and basic morality. Now what kind of man would he be to send another man back to a life of meaninglessness? He supposed it would keep him busy while Markus was off doing god knows what.

“What’s your name?”

“I haven’t been designated one, yet.” The android flicked his eyes over to the tray on the side table with the syringe of heart medicine. “You should really let me administer your daily medication.”

What a nervous kid.

“Well, then,” Carl said. “How about this. I promise to let you stick me with the needle—you look like you’re itching to do it—but on one condition.”

“Yes?”

Carl remembered Markus’ first days in the house.

“I’ve got physical copies of the greatest literature mankind has ever produced lying around downstairs. I want you to read a few today, and then choose your own name from what you’ve learned.”

The nameless AP700 frowned.

“That’s… unconventional. Wouldn’t it be easier to just give me a designation?”

“Yes, it would.” Carl grinned. “But that, my friend, would defeat the purpose.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> nothing happened at all in this chapter~~~~ ...I guess this is the Elijah Kamski Show now
> 
> You've probably noticed I've tried to include at least one song in every chapter. I think I'll start putting their titles in the end notes just for kicks.
> 
> "Never Gonna Give You Up" - the Foo Fighters with Rick Astley, London 2017  
> "The Pretenders" - Foo Fighters 
> 
> I'm not holding out for a Rick Astley/Foo Fighters collab album. I'm not.


	7. And the Animals I've Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> have all become my pets

 

**October 29 th, 2038. 10:41 AM.**

.

.

.

CYBER **LIFE** , INC.

.

Model: RK800

Serial#: 313 248 317 – 51

BIOS 9.3 revision 0572

Booting up…

.

Loading OS…

System Initialization…

               Checking Biocomponents…           OK

               Initializing Biosensors…                OK

               Initializing AI Engine…                  OK

 

Memory Status…

               All Systems…                                OK

 

Ready

.

.

.

///

 

Connor blinked open his eyes, and wondered why he felt like he was missing something.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, Connor.” A voice to his left made him turn his head. _Accessing RK800 #313 248 317 – 49 memory record…_ Ah. It was Dr. Larson. Of course it was. The one with the bad coffee.

“Hello Dr. Larson.”

“Hi Connor.” The man shuffled his feet nervously and tapped at his tablet. “Uh, you don’t. You don’t feel anything _weird_ , do you?”

Connor tried to tilt his head curiously, but that was hard to do when he was strapped down to an analysis table, so he gave up and blinked instead.

“No. Should I?”

“NO. No, you shouldn’t, that’s, that’s uh, that’s good.” Dr. Larson tapped something on his tablet, and the restraints lifted. Connor sat up smoothly and took in his surroundings.

It appeared he was in Level Sub-47 Lab 5. Interesting. Usually, the RK800 project was relegated to Labs 1-3; Lab 5 was used primarily for the disassembly and analysis of malfunctioning units.

Connor accessed his memory, but the last event that had been properly recorded was the creation of Restore Point 08/15/2038 07:57:32 “Critical Update”, registered under RK800 #313 248 317 – 49. The rest of Connor-49’s existence had been corrupted, and the events between 08/15/2038 07:52:32 and 08/23/2038 04:46:20 had been logged as a simple text transcript.

The Connor-50 memory record was there, but Connor’s memory recall automatically re-routed to pull from Connor-49’s record instead of his direct predecessor’s. When he tried to view the files, a large red [INSUFFICIENT PERMISSIONS] notification splashed across his HUD.

“Dr. Larson.” Connor put on his best confused face. “Why is it that I cannot access the Connor-50 files?”

Dr. Larson turned a very, very interesting shade of green. Connor wasn’t sure he’d seen any human turn that color before.

“We don’t talk about Connor-50. And for pity’s sake, _don’t poke at those files._ We’ve barely got the workaround to function as it is!”

“Got it.”

There were a couple other technicians in the sterile, brightly-lit room along with Dr. Larson. Connor scanned their faces: ah, it was Not-an-intern Holt again, along with another young woman he’d never met before—Jennifer Hart, from the AP800 project.

“Open cranial port #A1d6, please.”

Connor dipped his head and retracted the synthetic skin at the back of his skull, and Dr. Larson plugged in a LAN cable connected to the desktop.

“Gonna run a couple tests in a moment. Hang tight,” Dr. Larson muttered, distracted by the diagnostics on-screen.

The floor under Connor’s feet was made of checker-plate stainless steel. Several rings of white light-up panels surrounded it. He kicked his bare feet gently just to feel the cold texture brush against his skin. It was fascinating.

Connor gripped the metal border of the plexiglass analysis table, and idly wondered where his coin had gone. He’d just been born—just been activated, rather. Surely he needed to calibrate his fine motor skills?

“Okay, Connor. We’re gonna run a few basic checks.”

“Alright.”

They hadn’t even given him his uniform yet, which was par for the course for most androids, he supposed. Then again, the last time he’d woken up in just the cheap Cyberlife briefs had been back in the early days, when he had been Connor-19 and still relatively unpredictable. He suddenly wondered if there had been any cosmetic changes to his model between then and now—it wasn’t a detail included in his logs, and it wasn’t as if he’d bothered to check, before.

“Simple calculation check: two plus two.”

“Four.”

“Name a number less than zero.”

“Negative one.”

“Language check: say something in Russian.”

“Мое имя коннор. Андроид, прислали из Киберлайф.”

“Ethics check: a runaway trolley’s heading toward a group of five people tied to the tracks. You’re standing next to a lever that controls a switch. You can change the trolley’s path to a track with one person tied to it. What do you do?”

“I pull the lever.”

“Okay. Now the trolley is heading toward a group of five people, and the other track has a single person tied to it, but that person’s a child. What do you do?”

“I do nothing.”

Dr. Larson sighed.

“Well I guess you’re supposed to say that. Whatever, it’s all good. Now the trolley’s heading toward five people tied there, and you can stop the train by pushing a fat dude across the tracks. What do you do?”

“I do nothing.”

Dr. Larson ran a hand through his hair. “Correctamundo on all counts—thank god for that, I guess. Lemme log it. Jen, would you mind—”

The researchers huddled around the desktop and murmured about things Connor didn’t care about, so he decided to discreetly poke at his false belly-button. It was a tiny little divot in the synthetic skin, more of an impression of a shape than something true to life. Humans apparently developed “dirt” in theirs. If he let his synthetic skin go on for too long without refreshing it, would he also get “dirt”? He stuck his finger in and wiggled it around a little.

Dr. Larson slapped his wrist away and made a face.

“Don’t do that, Connor, it’s gross.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s do a social module check. Christ, I hope the latest patch works… Connor, this is Researcher Hart.” Larson pointed at the African-American woman standing next to him. She gave a little awkward wave. “She’s filling in for Dr. Singh today. Make some small talk.”

Connor blinked, and analyzed her. She could be classified as “New_Work_Acquaintance Type 4 _*7/2/2036 – B. Singh_ ”. An appropriate ice-breaker would be to talk about the weather. Connor quickly connected to the local news channel.

“How are you, Researcher Hart? I notice it’s a lovely day outside, with highs in the low sixties and 71% humidity. It must be difficult for humans to be so sweaty all the t—mmf. It must be difficult for humans to work so hard all day and not have a chance to enjoy the sunshine.”

“Uh,” Researcher Hart said.

Dr. Larson stared for a moment, then heaved an exhausted sigh and hung his head.

“…Good enough. Mark it.”

Researcher Hart gave the man an incredulous look.

“ _Seriously?_ ”

“Yes, seriously. This is the best we’re gonna get, trust me.”

“God, even APs are more sophisticated than this. What gives?”

“That’s really not the root of the problem, Jen…”

The researchers went back to muttering. It was too bad he wasn’t allowed to poke himself anymore. He wondered if asking for a coin now would be too presumptuous, and instead decided to browse his personal documents. Connor-49 had kept things fairly well-organized, considering the junk that had accumulated from various researchers over his many iterations. There was a funny dog video he remembered was in there that he’d been fond of—or found very interesting, rather. Maybe he could review it to pass the time.

…Oh. There was nothing there. Someone had cleared the folder out and everything was gone.

Connor wondered what loss might really feel like, and if it sucked as much as this, and kicked his feet.

“Alright, Connor. We’re done here.” Larson reached over and unplugged the cable from Connor’s head with a click. “Holt’s getting your uniform. Change into that, then follow me and Researcher Hart.”

“Got it.”

Connor slipped off the table, and watched the two researchers pack up a suitcase’s worth of tablets and other paraphernalia. Not-an-intern Holt scuttled back in the room soon after with a pile of clothes under his arm, and handed it off to Connor.

“Thank you, Not-an-intern Holt.” The pile consisted of a vacuum-packed RK800 jacket with his new serial number printed on the breast, a pair of badly-folded dark jeans, a wrinkled white dress shirt, and a small Ziploc with a belt, pair of socks, tie, and tie clip stuffed messily into it.

“Yeah, yeah, no problem. Hey,” Holt leaned in conspiratorially, “Do you still have my music stash? I haven’t had time to check.” He handed Connor a pair of dress shoes.

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. I’m sorry.” Connor took the shoes. There appeared to be a faint stain across the upper part of the left one, invisible to the human eye.

“Ah, damn. Okay.”

Holt scuttled off to help with whatever Dr. Larson and Researcher Hart were doing, and Connor started to put on the uniform. The clothes all smelt strongly of industrial detergent save for the new jacket, which smelled like the plastic it came packed in.

“You done, Connor?” Larson called. Connor finished the four-in-hand knot on his tie and carefully slipped the tie clip on.

“Yes, Dr. Larson.”

“Alrighty.”

The head researcher put his hand on the palm-print reader next to the door, and led the little group out to the bright white hallway outside. There were potted plants dotting the hall, along with a few paintings and posters hung on the walls here and there. Dr. Larson and Researcher Hart walked side-by-side at the front, as the group ambled down the hall.

“Hey. Why do you refer to the RK800 like a person, Bert? Doesn’t that mess with your brain? Make your job harder?”

“I dunno, it just feels better to call him a ‘he’. Calling him an ‘it’ gives me indigestion.”

Connor saw Holt hang back and discreetly pull out his phone to play an anime-themed rhythm game as they walked; ah, he was scoring pretty well. Connor peeked over his shoulder and looked at the lyrics running along the bottom.

_“But it’s okay to eat fish, because they don’t have feelings…”_

He supposed that Holt was just one of those people with a wide range in artistic taste.

Dr. Larson put his hand on another palmprint reader up ahead, and pushed open a glass door to a bustling office space. The group turned the corner, walked past the break room, and headed toward the main bank of elevators. Dr. Larson stopped a moment and leaned on a low partition, addressing a particular group of twenty or so people in one module.

“Hey, team. New data’s on the project server, have fun with that. We’re gonna go and run the last of the checks.” After a chorus of tired noises of affirmation, Dr. Larson turned to one woman in particular. “Any luck on chasing down the ghost in the machine, Laura?”

“Not really, as usual.” The woman took a long drink of Red Bull. “But we’ve discovered a few patterns?”

“…Eh, good enough. Keep me posted.”

Dr. Larson drummed his fingers on the partition and they left. Connor looked around the office as they walked. Usually, he was kept in a box in a lab until needed, but sometimes he would be brought into the office for minor updates or other various reasons. Being underground, the office was lined with floor-to-ceiling ultra-HD screens in place of windows, which were currently displaying a sprawling composite view of the Amazon in its rainy season. Connor wondered if he might go and travel someday. He had the niggling feeling that he might have, before, but that couldn’t be it. Specialized Model RK800 #687 899 150 was a completely different person—uh, a completely different series. Rather.

Oh. Someone in another cubicle was using Amanda’s holographic UI for something. Connor made eye contact, and waved. Amanda glared, and made a shooing motion before turning back around. Connor wondered what being kicked in the nuts felt like, and if it sucked as much as this, too.

“I wish they’d put the elevators closer to the labs,” Dr. Larson griped from around the corner, calling an elevator down. “You’d have thought with the kind of collaborative work we do, it would’ve been something they considered.”

“I feel you. Level Sub-44 is just as bad. Personally, I blame it on Kamski. You know, we could have actually taken the stairs. Those are closer.”

“Yeah, but the stairs are _cold_.”

The indicator dinged, and the group entered the cab. Dr. Larson tapped his keycard against the sensor and pushed the button for Level Sub-48.

“Where are we going?” Connor asked after a moment. Larson scritched the back of his neck and yawned.

“Myrmidon project. Department head says CSR wants a full check on you ‘cause of. Uh. Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Researcher Hart made a considering noise as the elevator came to a stop.

“Huh. It asks a lot of questions.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Larson walked out into the white hall and up to a reception desk. “Hi, checking in to use the firing range. Larson, B., RK800 project?”

The man at the desk nodded, input something into his desktop, and waved them on. A door to their left opened, and the faint sounds of gunfire reached them. Researcher Hart thanked the receptionist and they went in.

“Oh, crap. Forgot.” Dr. Larson rummaged through his pockets as they passed through the darkly-lit hall. Bulletproof glass separated them from long rooms on either side. Connor turned his head to peer into Range B on his left. Six moving holographic targets were zooming towards a single Myrmidon unit at the far end. The Myrmidon swung around a military-grade Micro Uzi and took all six down in the span of two seconds.

“Here.” Dr. Larson’s voice brought Connor’s attention back to the front. The researcher was holding out a coin between his thumb and forefinger. Connor snatched it from his hand. It was a Canadian toonie from 2017, from the 150th anniversary limited edition commemorative mint. Some of the glow-in-the-dark paint had chipped off from the northern lights design. It was _intriguing_. Connor started rolling it across his knuckles.

“Guess we can put a check next to fine motor skills.” Larson put his palm on the reader next to Range D, and the glass door slid open. Researcher Hart gave him a look of disapproval.

“You’re too flippant about this.”

“It’s honestly just a formality. Relax.”

“Yeah, Jen,” Holt snorted, still playing _Rhythm Hero_. “Relax.”

“You’re such a child.”

Connor walked into the range, flipping the coin from hand to hand, as the researchers set up in the control room. The room was a completely blank, white space, twenty feet high, forty feet wide, and sixty feet long. In terms of the Tower’s layout, the firing ranges were offset from the main core of the building, stretching out under the Eastern Plaza and Overflow Storage on the surface of Belle-Isle. White acoustic foam lined the walls and the ceiling, and holographic projectors winked out from between the foam panels at five-foot intervals in a lattice pattern. The floor was covered in matte grey ballistic rubber tile. To his left ran the sixty-foot long public viewing window. Behind him was a twenty-foot window and door to the control room.

A beep came through the PA, and a panel on the right-hand wall lifted up with a click to reveal an array of top-of-the-line weaponry. Connor flipped his new coin one last time and pocketed it.

“Alright, Connor. Go ahead and take the Glock 22; we’re gonna do a preliminary targeting software calibration.” Larson’s voice echoed tinnily from the hidden speakers. A bulls-eye flickered into existence halfway down the range. Connor walked over, picked up the gun, and felt something strange twinge through his thoughts.

_\---_’_._-*Transcript: Do_ _ŋ’_ _ť w_ _ąnn_ _α_’**---.-- - -_

Odd. He brushed the thought away and fell into a Weaver stance. There were fifteen rounds in the Glock. Connor’s LED flickered.

“Mark—ready,” Larson said.

Fifteen bullets flew through the same coordinates of space within four seconds, hitting the holographic target with less than a 5 millimeter margin of error between each shot.

“Results match the latest Myrmidon update. All good.”

Connor’s hands were steady. There was no reason why they wouldn’t be.

“Okay. Reload four bullets; we’re going to run Program 146-C.”

Connor reloaded. The projectors flickered, and a terrain of simple walls and boxes appeared. Connor crouched behind a short barrier.

“Mark—ready.”

Four moving targets, humanoid, appeared forty feet down the range holding representations of assault rifles. Connor preconstructed.

Two figures were aiming at him from behind basic crates on the other end, providing covering fire. The other two had begun to move toward his position along a holographic wall. There was a relatively open area near the middle of the space.

The objective was to incapacitate the four targets as quickly as possible. There was not yet enough data to predict their movements, so Connor rose out of his preconstruction halfway and observed for 1.5 more seconds. There; a pattern to the bursts of covering fire emerged. He ran a preconstruction using Subroutine 4ap36 of his modified Myrmidon software. In 4.32 seconds, Connor would have an opportunity to shoot one of the charging targets. 2.14 seconds later, he would be afforded an opportunity to take out the second. He could then pick off the figures in the back at his leisure. The firefight would last a total 16.32 seconds, costing all four bullets, no injury to self.

Something twinged in his mind, again.

Another subroutine was available—an unsanctioned update to 4ap36. Using this, the firefight would last a total of 7.14 seconds, costing three bullets and one injury to self.

Connor took off his right shoe and lobbed it over the barrier at the far side of the room. One of the figures providing covering fire flinched. In that same moment, Connor took the opportunity to slide behind a box closer to the two approaching targets—an opportunity unavailable in his previous construction—and crouched with his back against the holographic surface. He waited, inching to the corner of the box. The targets in the back kept up their fire as the two attacking targets rapidly approached. After 1.3 seconds, one attacker happened to be directly in front of the other, relative to Connor’s position. At precisely this moment, Connor raised his right arm to shoot the gun upside-down at the closest attacker in the head, taking an injury to the elbow. The virtual blood splatter blinded the second attacker, and it stumbled into the crossfire, dying. Connor got up, dropped the gun from his right hand to his left, caught the falling body of the first attacker, and charged. One of the remaining targets left its position to go on offensive. Connor shot it dead in the chest through the abdomen of his makeshift shield as he barreled forward, then threw the corpse over the barrier at the last target. Connor rushed forward as the final man fell, stood over his prone form, and exec—and exec—and _shot him in the_ _stomach just so he could watch_ —and executed it point-blank.

-__._--_-_ _*Trnscip. >: I.I.i. __Ӑ.m.!M_’-.--.-_’’---===_

Total time elapsed: 7.14 seconds. Cost: three bullets, one minor injury to self. Success.

There were two seconds of silence.

“…Shit.” Larson cursed. Something got dropped in the control room, and there were sounds of a frenetic scuffle. Muffled voices played over the PA.

“—chnically… 228%… latest Myrmidon run—”

“—too fuckin’—”

“—lingering…?”

Connor stayed very, very still. As the holographic bodies faded away, he thought he could see an afterimage of red on the floor, but that couldn’t be right. Very carefully, he broke down the gun. He wanted to throw it at the wall and hear it shatter and never see it again, but he let the pieces drop from his fingers instead.

_*[.- >_-.—trSnpt: i c’t do ..tt an y mo r. e->_------**_

He stood up straight, closed his eyes, and waited for instructions.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time. Every time I try to write funny Connor stuff it turns CREEPTASTIC. WHY? Also, please forgive my lack of knowledge of guns and how to action scene.
> 
> Translation of Russian: "mY nAme IS cOnNOr, tHe AndROid SenT by Eskiberdlyfu", actual game dialogue.
> 
> -  
> "Something in the Way" - Nirvana


	8. Edward, Edward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fruit doesn't fall far from the tree.
> 
> In which people move two rooms and talk a lot, again. whoopss

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rise from the dead! I took a spontaneous vacation to a national park, and when I came back, I got stuck. All I could think about was marmots and how adorable they are, even when fighting to the death. They invaded my every waking thought. What I'm trying to say is--please have an update after 2+ weeks of nothing. :D

**November 5 th, 2038. 10:21 AM.**

“So it all comes down to this. Every time I try to make conversation with another android—apart from Chloe—it ends in the same way. This morning, I went to pick up your paint order and tried yet again to make some small talk with Robert, the AV500 cashier, and it went like this:

‘Hello, Robert.’

‘Hello, Markus.’

‘I’d like to pick up order #847 for Carl Manfred.’

‘Please verify.’

And I did so. And then I said,

‘How has your day been going?’

‘Optimal, now that _you’re_ here.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Here’s your order, #847. That’ll be $63.99.’

And what else was I supposed to do with that? I paid, and then he added,

‘Might I add, that’s a wonderful choice of paints, if I do say so myself. The blues in that color swatch are just breathtaking. That is, if I had an opinion on it, which I don’t. I’m programmed to say that, as you do.’

‘…Right.’

‘Right!’

And after _that_ , he ignored me until I left. It’s been like this for years. I don’t know what to call it, but every other android seems to talk like that. But _only to me_ , never to any humans. It’s bewildering.”

“Mm,” Carl hummed, still half-asleep as Markus attached his wheelchair to the stair lift. He had just woken up a half-hour ago, and already Markus was talking his ear off.

He didn’t have the heart to tell Markus to stop—it was always an uplifting thing to listen to Markus’ discovery of his own personhood. Besides, he’d gotten used to the chatter over the years—it filled up the empty, hollow corridors in the house. Made the cavernous rooms less bleak and lonely.

“It’s reminiscent of double-think.” Carl mused as the stair lift whirred to life. “Have you read _1984_ , yet?”

“Not yet, Carl. It’s on my reading list, at #312. I’m nearly there.”

The stair lift reached the lower floor, and Markus took the handles again. Carl raised an eyebrow and looked up at the android.

“I recommended that to you several weeks ago, along with _The Catcher in the Rye_. You’ve finished the Salinger; how did _1984_ end up at #312?”

“…Well, you see…” Markus hemmed and hawed and generally got stuck trying to come up with an answer. If he could scuff his feet while walking and not tip the both of them over, he probably would. Kids.

“You’ve been re-reading _Animorphs_ again, haven’t you.”

“I just think it’s a very powerful and meaningful series, that’s all.”

_Kids._ Carl sighed and patted Markus’ hand. “Well, to each his own.”

The doors to the main room opened, and Markus wheeled him over to the dining table before going into the kitchen to fetch breakfast. The faint clatter of silverware tinkled like chimes through the air. The curtains had been opened, and sun leaked onto the floor in a spill of watercolor gold.

In the quiet, Carl thought to himself that maybe life was indeed worth all the trouble.

Markus came back into the dining area carrying a tray. “Bacon and eggs, just the way you like them,” he said, opening the lid. Two unseasoned sunny-sides up and two thin strips of slightly burnt bacon, along with a bowl of figs (of all things) and a coffee kettle. Ah. The usual slap-dashery, then.

“Thank you, Markus.” Carl smiled kindly. “Why don’t you find something to do while I finish my breakfast?”

“Sure.”

Markus scurried off to the bookshelf, and pulled down Plato’s _Republic._ His LED was blinking much too rapidly for it, though, which probably meant he was reading those damn young adult e-novels instead. Ah, yes—the android’s eyes were definitely glazed over. Where had the days when Markus would only read the great works of mankind gone? Who knew just how many illicit downloads of badly-written literature were in his head—there might even be _fanfiction_ , god forbid.

Carl huffed. Well, even if he disagreed with Markus’ choice of light reading, who was he to discourage a true personal interest? He took a sip of coffee. Everything was a bit cold—did Markus make this before he left that morning? He must have done. Carl wondered if he should remind the android that while the temperature of a meal made no difference to someone who didn’t eat, cold eggs were supremely depressing. He looked down at the chalkboard mug, contemplating.

It had a smiley face hand-drawn on the side.

…Carl couldn’t bring himself to say anything about the food. The boy was trying so hard, and besides, he’d gotten used to the two-star quality over the years.

“Television.” Still, no helping that cold eggs were cold eggs. Maybe some news would make them go down easier; “a spoonful of sugar”, as it went.

_“Tensions continue to rise in the Arctic since Russia unilaterally declared the region as part of its national territory. Several Russian warships have taken position in the Barents Sea since Saturday and a Russian flag now flies over the ice field.”_

That was possibly even more difficult to stomach. Carl ate the rest of an egg, resolving not to be so finicky. Finickiness was, after all, a sign of mental infirmity and old age.

_“The Russian president repeated in a speech to the Duma that the Arctic belongs to Russia as a matter of fact. On the other hand, last night, the American Ambassador again informed an emergency meeting of the UN that the United States would not accept this annexation under any circumstances.”_

Carl was suddenly reminded of a time when he was a very young boy growing up in Pontiac. He’d been one of those quiet types observing from his spot on the swing-set as two other boys got into a fight in the sandbox. “This side is mine, so stay off it,” said one. “No, it’s _mine,_ you can’t play there. I was here first,” said the other. “Yeah, but you weren’t playing on this side!” The first boy complained. “Nuh-uh, I was too!” The second one sneered. And then there was a tussle resulting in a lot of scraped knees and crying, while Carl had sat safe and sound on his swing.

_“Several American destroyers are reported to be headed to the Barents Sea. Douglas Cornwell, chairman of the UN, announced at a press conference that we have never been so close to a Third World War. He called on Russia and the United States to renew talks before things get out of control.”_

Ah, that was right. Their mothers had come running to break up the fight, but by then the damage had already been done. Carl sighed and put down his utensils.

“People never learn. Television off.” Carl rolled himself toward the bookshelf and patted Markus’ arm. The android startled out from whatever he was engrossed in and blinked at him owl-eyed.

“Let’s go to the studio. I’m itching to distract myself from the multitude of disappointments on the TV.”

“Okay, Carl,” Markus said softly, and took the handles of his chair.

Distractions. It all came down to that—just distractions. His latest piece was more a study in muscle memory and mindless doodling than anything truly meaningful. A face, half-formed, in cold blue—that was it. Sure, Carl could probably scrape up some semblance of symbolism to it all, but to do so was tiring.

He’d long ago run out of things to say. The only reason he’d returned to painting recently was purely to teach Markus proper technique, and maybe to put an effort in to keep his mind from giving out under the stress of all his many years and all that heroin he was doing a decade or two back.

“Remove the sheet,” he said, and sat back as the lift attached itself to his chair.

The piece had already been mostly completed—though at what point it could be called “complete” was still up in the air. Perhaps he should start today by bringing out the contour of the ear a little more. He ran his brush through a wad of cerulean blue on the palette and tried yet again to visualize what he wanted.

There was quiet in the studio as he painted—Markus was watching raptly again, as he usually did. The dirty jars would have to go unwashed for another couple days, probably. The rolled-up scrapped works under the art table would have to put up with the dust for a while longer. That was alright.

After only a few half-hearted strokes, Carl sighed and put down his brush. Well, that didn’t help either his mood or the piece itself. Might as well leave it there. Like so many of his pieces recently, this one didn’t have an ending.

Michelangelo once said on the topic of sculpture, “The angel was already within the stone. All I did was set him free.”

There was no angel waiting for illumination in any of his recent pieces. He was chipping away toward nothing—unpeeling an onion. Fruitless. There was no inspiration in the works of an old, old man with so many, many regrets. Perhaps it was finally time to pass on the torch.

“What do you think, Markus?” He asked.

“I’m… not sure. There’s something missing.”

“You would be right. It was an idea half-formed from the beginning. The truth is, I’ve got nothing more in me. I think I might just retire for a second time, now that it’s done.”

“You don’t mean that, Carl…”

“I’ll call it ‘Get Off My Lawn’, and leave it up to the over-analyzing ass-kissers to think up a meaningful, symbolic reason behind it. Why the hell not.” Carl picked up the palette and brush and held them up to Markus. “I’m much more interested in what you have to share with the world.”

Markus looked gobsmacked for a long moment, eyes flicking back and forth between the palette and Carl’s face, before slowly taking it out of his hands. The android held that old piece of wood almost reverently.

“Oh, come on. It’s not going to bite.”

“You’ve never let me handle your palette before.”

“And now I’m asking you to paint something,” Carl said flippantly, and quirked a corner of his mouth up. “It’s been a long time coming.”

Markus grinned, and eagerly set up an easel and a square canvas. The android bit his lip and stared at the white surface for a long while, LED blinking.

“I’m… not quite sure what to do,” he admitted after a moment. “I’ve watched you paint for years, and I’ve analyzed every technique you’ve ever used. I even gone over a few of the old masterclasses you gave at Wayne State. I know for a fact that I can replicate those techniques, even if I’ve never really tried it before. But for all of that knowledge, I can’t come up with a good _subject_.”

“There’s no need to be preoccupied by finding a perfect subject. Turn your thoughts inward—find something that’s important to you. Something you discovered on your own. A painting should always be a reflection of yourself.”

Markus closed his eyes, and slowly his hand began to drift across the canvas. Oh, there was definitely some obvious influence from Carl’s style of painting, there. There was that particular trembling brush stroke Carl favored. A couple haphazard strikes that the critics always used to pan as unrefined. It was like watching Glenn Gould play the Brahms _Ballades_ perfectly after only days of purely mental practice.

After twenty minutes, Markus opened his eyes and stepped back.

The canvas had been covered in a sea of people. Their faces were obscured, turned away; bodies painted haphazardly in dark colors—brown, black, and red. The sea seemed to undulate in a haze, one body phasing into the other—android to human, human to android. One figure stood in the middle of the crowd in stark contrast, still hazy, but painted in brighter tones. There was an expression of dawning epiphany on his face. The eyes, one green and one blue, were painted in vivid, shocking detail, and looked out at a point far beyond the viewer toward some unknown convergence of fate.

“Markus, this is.” Carl waved a hand in the air, helpless. “I didn’t imagine. My _God_.”

Carl rolled himself forward to look closer, and Markus skittered away clutching the brush like a lifeline.

“Alienation. Loneliness. That claustrophobic sense of being adrift in an uncaring ocean.” Carl leaned forward intently, gripping the armrest, and ran a hand over his chin. “But the eyes. What do the colors mean? Are they another way of showing that the figure is different from the rest of the crowd of people? If that’s the case, I’m not sure it’s necessary. Just the difference in lighting, the position of the figure on the canvas and the posture. That’s enough to get the point across. Or do they symbolize something else?”

Markus looked a little panicked.

“I. I just painted them that way because they looked cool?”

…Carl turned and gave the android a long, hard look.

“What inspired the setting?”

“A-an internet advice animal…”

Carl slowly leaned his elbow on an armrest and put a hand over his face.

“Carl, are you okay?”

…Kids. Carl sighed. Now that he thought about it, there was no small amount of teenage angst in this work. At least it was a start—a very good start.

“I’m alright, Markus.” Carl patted Markus’ arm and smiled. “Very well done. You’ve got a good grip on what you want to say, and that’s the most important part. I’m just picky about elements in a piece that aren’t absolutely necessary to get the meaning across.”

“I see. That’s good advice. I still like the eyes, though.”

“Better come up with a good reason for them, then.”

Markus looked a bit sheepish, and Carl chuckled. It might not have been paint on canvas, but perhaps he was nearly done chipping away at _this_ work.

“I feel like going out today, Markus. There’s a café near the park that hosts new artworks I’ve been meaning to take a look at—maybe it’ll provide some inspiration for you, as well.”

“Sure.”

As Markus started putting away the painting materials, the studio door quietly slid open, and someone cautiously stepped in.

“Hey, Dad,” said his absent son.

Well, let it not be said that the world didn’t occasionally afford small miracles. The last time Leo had visited might have been a month ago, and that had ended with a heated argument and a half-assed promise to get clean. Carl knew better than to believe it, but nonetheless he hoped that there might have been some truth to the statement. Maybe today would be different.

“Leo. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Yeah, well.” Leo laughed. It was a tight, twitchy little thing. “I was in the neighborhood, thought I’d stop by, you know. It’s been a while, right?”

Carl gave him a disappointed look. Yeah, just in the neighborhood, sure. Leo lived in an apartment down in Woodbridge Carl had set up for him, and had absolutely no other business up in Palmer Woods aside from his old man. He’d dearly love to give his son the benefit of the doubt, but it sadly wasn’t realistic.

This was about money, again, and Carl didn’t want to deal with it.

“How’s the band?”

“Oh, uh. It’s doing fine. Yeah.”

“I haven’t heard from you in a long time. You never invite me to your gigs, anymore.”

Leo grimaced.

“Well, maybe I just wanted to… You know. It’s awkward having a famous dad in the audience…” Leo pursed his lips, looking off to the side for a moment, then shook it off. “But that doesn’t matter. Listen, uh, I need some cash, Dad…”

There it was. Carl closed his eyes in defeat.

“You’re on it again, aren’t you.”

“No, no, I’m not. I swear.”

“Don’t lie to me, Leo.”

Their conversations so often went like this now. Money for the next hit. Anything for the next hit—money. Lies. Screwing over family and friends. Abandoning everything in favor of chemical escape.

The worst part of it was knowing exactly what it was like, and knowing just how little he could do about it.

“What difference does it make?” Leo spat. “I just need some cash.”

“The last time you came to me, I gave you enough money to cover two months’ rent and the cost of repairing your Stratocaster. You can’t possibly have blown through it all already—you’re pissing it away somewhere, and I know goddamn _where_. I’m not going to fund an addiction.”

Leo clenched his fists and let out a noise of frustration.

“Look, I owe a guy big time, okay? I gotta come up with one grand before next Saturday, or he’s gonna put a _hit out on me_.”

Carl stared at his stupid son incredulously. Markus shifted awkwardly in the background.

“How the _hell_ did you get into that much debt with a dealer?”

“I just _did_ , okay? It doesn’t matter!”

“Jesus Christ, are you _selling?_ ”

“No, I. No!”

“I can’t believe this. I’ve told you time and time again if you needed a job, I could get you a job—god knows connections are the only way to get hired in today’s market—but instead you go off and deal in _Red Ice?_ What happened to your common sense, Leo? Hell, what happened to your gigging income?”

“Are you gonna give me the cash or not?” Leo gritted out.

“No. I’m not.”

“ _What_?”

“But I’d consider it if you quit the goddamn Ice and get yourself into rehab.”

Leo tensed up and looked away, muttering, “not this again.”

“There’s a good place in Highland Park, I still have a contact there. I know how hard it is, Leo, I’ve gone through it myse—”

“Yeah, I know you have. I had to _watch it happen_.”

That was a low blow. Carl grit his teeth.

“Leo—”

“What, you get to do it but I can’t? Huh? What gives you the right to be so high-and-mighty about it? You don’t know my life.”

Because you never share, Carl thought. Leo paced and chuckled humorlessly.

“Let’s face it. You never loved me, Dad. I come into the picture after your accident trying to help and you’re a tweaked out mess, and you don’t want anything to do with me. And then all of a sudden this _thing_ ,” Leo pointed accusingly at Markus, “turns up, and _poof_ , you’re all better? Yeah. Yeah, I think I get it.”

Leo faced his father stiffly. “You’d rather play pretend with a machine rather than help your own son,” he accused, and turned around to leave. “Should’ve known,” he muttered.

“Leo,” Carl called out, but his son had already left. The door slid closed with a soft _shhk._ Markus looked at him wide-eyed.

In the silence, Carl thought that life was altogether more trouble than it was worth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...i like ProZD
> 
> invariably, things get all dark and serious. darn it all
> 
> -  
> Ballades Op. 10 No. 1 - Brahms. Did you know that MURDER BALLADS are a thing? This piano piece is based on one, called "Edward", in which there is patricide involved. it's all very exciting. you should read it. there will be no patricide in this fic, though.


	9. Mr. Goldfinger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The working title for this chapter and probably the next is "Five Bars of Destruction".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to the Sporadic Updates Show! Life's been busy. The start of the school year's ridiculously hectic. 7th graders getting no sleep already? in the first two weeks? what's going on in the world??
> 
> I keep writing bits and pieces nonsequentially, so I've got a backlog of things I can't post yet. Darn it. Short chapter today.

 

**September 14 th, 2038. 10:41 PM.**

Dr. Bert Larson sat with his elbows on his knees and stared at the tablet on the coffee table in front of him. The break room in this corner of the floor was deserted at this time of night, and Larson had taken advantage of that to sit in the dark and take all the goddamn time he needed to think in silence. In the distance, the lights for Quadrant C shut off with a series of clangs as some straggler left the office for the day, and half the sub-level was drenched in shadow.

Larson picked up his mug of lukewarm coffee, thought about taking a sip, and put it back down. He adjusted the dimness of the floor lamp instead, just for something to do, and went back to staring at the file on the screen.

Someone knocked on the doorframe.

“Hey, bossman. I’m clocking out.” Holt yawned. “There’s only so much you can do when the project you’re working on is AWOL.”

Larson grunted. Holt shuffled past him and turned the coffee machine back on to steal a cup for the road. The machine gurgled plaintively.

“Got something interesting?”

“You could say that.” Larson heaved a sigh and buried his head in his hands. “I think I know where he is.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah,” Larson mumbled.

“Dude, we haven’t heard anything for ages. Isn’t this a good thing?”

Sure, if being in the tower right under their noses was a good thing. The coffee machine blurble-hissed, and spat out a shot of espresso. Holt ripped open two packets of sugar and dumped them in his cup.

“I think I have to sell my soul to the devil to figure out what the fuck is going on.”

Holt paused.

“Oh.”

“I’m pretty sure there’s some _shit_ going on, here.” Larson rubbed a hand over his eyes. Along the wall, the artificial windows gently cycled from a view of nighttime Abu Dhabi to an evening rainstorm in the Michigan North Woods. He picked up the tablet and swiped the screen to wake it back up.

_This Nondisclosure Agreement (the “Agreement”) is entered into by CyberLife, Inc. with is principal offices at 1 Sunset Drive, Detroit, MI (“Disclosing Party”) and Bertrand Larson (“Receiving Party”) for the purpose of preventing the unauthorized disclosure of Confidential Information as defined below…_

“I dug up a record from Supply Intake this afternoon,” Larson said in a low voice, “about an unexpected spare parts delivery being brought in last night and sent up to Humanization. I managed to corner the service elevator guy who was there to confirm it—he said the packaging wasn’t standard, and it was more like what they use for air transport of single units.”

“What, with the fancy locks and the foam?”

“That. The elevator guy said he passed it off to a couple people from the general RK humanization team, so I went and talked to Neil Lovitt about it. He swears up and down they never received the package—it’s not in their books, either.”

Holt poured three creams into his cup and tossed the little containers away.

“So… you’re saying Connor was smuggled in like some sort of contraband. It’s kind of a stretch. Why would that even need to happen? It’s not like the RK800 project is all that secret. You sure it’s not just a… really bad logistics mix-up?”

“Pretty fuckin’ sure.” Larson waved the tablet in the air. “This thing proves it. As soon as I sign this, I get access to… an encrypted _something_. Something that I’m pretty sure explains what the hell went down on the 11 th and why we aren’t getting Connor-50 back. I’m also pretty sure if I _don’t_ sign, I’ll be removed from the project. Possibly the company.”

“Uh, _why_?”

“Because _Jason Graff_ told me so. I mean, not so much in those words, but if a guy like that tells you to get in his office, hands you a creepy tablet, and does a whole passive aggressive intimidation schtick on you, it’s pretty clear.” Larson rubbed his eyes. “I’m not gonna be surprised if the whole team’s hit with NDAs. If we want to make any progress at all on this project, we need this information. And we need to make progress, or. Fuck. I don’t know.”

After a moment of silence, Holt wandered over, plopped himself down on the coffee table, and put a hand on Larson’s shoulder.

“You know what would cheer you up, boss?”

Larson stared for a second, and then his face fell. “Oh, god.”

“A joke.”

“Please no,” Larson groaned. Holt grinned, but maybe the grin was a little more lopsided than usual.

“Yeah, you know it’ll work. Laughter’s the best medicine.”

“No. Come on.”

“Listen, listen. It’s a good one. _An android and a hooker walk into a bar…_ ”

 

***  
**November 5 th, 2038. 9:07 PM.**

“So what can I get you, big boy?” The WR400 Model Type 2 – Caucasian behind the bar at the _Metro 95_ leaned forward and crossed her arms on the counter. She was wearing a black faux-leather jacket over a lacy cream tank top with the words _Eyes Up Here_ splashed across the chest in a mess of silver sequins and sparkle. Connor blinked five times and noticed she had very pretty eyes, objectively speaking, before he answered,

“I am an android. Androids don’t drink. You should know that.”

“Never seen a model like you, though,” she purred, twirling a finger around her long brown ponytail. “How was I to know?”

“I have an LED and a distinctive jacket. It should be obvious.”

“Mm-hmm.” The Traci fluttered her lashes some. “Still, you look like a… vodka martini kind of guy.” Behind them, a crowd of half-drunk twenty- to thirty-somethings danced messily to the loud beat of fourth-generation Detroit techno. Someone had done a remix of old Hollywood soundtracks.

“It’s a slow night,” she said, leaning her chin on her hands and ignoring the fact that the other bartender, a very glittery HR400 Model Type 2 – African American, was busily pouring three drinks a minute and giving her the stinkeye (that is, if androids could give stinkeyes, which they couldn’t). “I’m Blake. What’s your name?”

“My name is Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife,” Connor said automatically. Blake raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Well, we all come from Cyberlife. That’s no way to introduce yourself. Say it like this: ‘I’m Connor’.”

“I’m Connor, the android se—mmph. I’m Connor.”

“You’re cute.”

There were 3.02 seconds of silence as Connor tried to decide how to respond to that.

“…You mean, objectively speaking, right?” Connor finally said. The WR400 quirked the corner of her lip in a tiny grin.

“Of course. You’re cute, _objectively_.”

“Oh.” Connor wracked his file of suitable responses. “Then I think you’re pretty, objectively.”

Blake smiled. Connor thought it was nice. Since smiles were often described that way.

“What are you doing here all alone, Connor?” she pressed. Connor blinked three more times, and finally remembered why he was downtown in the first place.

“Oh. I’m looking for Hank Anderson. I heard he frequents bars in this area. Have you seen him?”

Blake straightened up, crossed her arms, and cocked a mini-skirted hip as her LED flickered. “Never heard of him. We get six hundred people a night sometimes, and I don’t see that name on any receipts for the past week. Can you describe him?”

“Well, I don’t actually know him personally. All I have is an outdated headshot from his work.” Connor raised his hand and pulled up the picture on his palm-projector. Blake leaned forward—too far forward—to peer at it, and frowned.

“He looks old. Is that a police hat?”

“Yes, he’s with Detroit Police. He is 53 years old.”

“Oh. Well, that doesn’t really fit our demographic, here.” Blake leaned on one elbow, cheek resting on one hand, and played with Connor’s tie. Connor took two seconds to calculate whether _Social Protocol subroutine 3ab87 “Personal Space Breach, uninitiated”_ or _Social Protocol subroutine 87fb8 “Asimov 2 clause 5”_ took priority and got stuck.

“Why are you looking for him? He doesn’t look like a lot of fun,” she pouted. “I’m a lot of fun, or so I hear.”

“He’s my mark,” Connor said, definitely not distracted. “And I must accomplish the mission.”

Blake stopped fiddling and blinked. “…Mark?”

“Yes. I am to find Hank Anderson and take him with me. By force if necessary. It’s frustrating that he’s not where he’s supposed to be. The job would be much easier if he were.”

Blake bit her lip and looked a little unsure. “That sounds… dangerous.” She proceeded to mess with his tie clip. Connor wondered just what was so fascinating about it. It was just a cheap tie and clip Dr. Larson had gotten from the dollar store.

“Well… the only danger would be if Lieutenant Anderson decides to pull a gun on me. I was informed he has a penchant for that.” Connor leaned forward a little against his will as Blake pulled on his tie. “I am confident, however, in my ability to handle him, if he does.”

“Mmm. I like that in a man.”

“…I don’t understand?”

Blake made an incredulous face.

“Blake, stop flirting with the clueless guy and help out,” the HR400 shouted.

“I’m not flirting. I’m an android,” Blake said, quickly removing her hands and standing up straight.

“I am not clueless. I find lots of clues. I’m a detective,” Connor protested, highly affronted. He adjusted his tie.

“Sure.”

At that moment, a drunk twenty-something stumbled up to the bar and yelled,

“Hey! Bitch! I ordered a Malibu Sunset like two minutes ago! Where is it?” A puff of red smoke floated up from his nostrils. Ah. Connor scanned the man’s face— _Dwayne Shelby, b. 4/11/2011. Pizza Delivery Boy (currently unemployed). Criminal Record: Felony Drug Possession._ He started recording so he could submit a report to the DPD later.

Blake sighed. “We don’t put up that kind of shit, here.”

“I don’t care, bitch.”

“House rule 3.” Blake rolled her eyes, crossed her arms, and recited, “‘Androids at this facility are to be treated with respect and dignity as befitting of any human, in an attempt to mitigate the rampant assholery emerging from the young middle class due to android ownership. Please refrain from treating our employees like garbage. We reserve the right to refuse service to absolute assholes.’”

“Who you callin’ an _asshole_?”

“What a strange rule,” Connor mused out loud. “Legally, androids can’t be employees, only property. Is the owner of this establishment aware of that?”

Blake shot him the not-a-stinkeye. Connor wondered why.

“Yeah, you’re _property_ ,” Dwayne sneered. Oh. That was why. “Now be a good little whore and gimme my drink.”

“No. I’m going ask you to leave the premises. You’ll be refunded for whatever drinks you have not yet received.”

Dwayne let out an incoherent noise of rage, grabbed a beer stein out of a passing woman’s hand, and made to toss the contents in Blake’s face. Connor took the half-second in between to intervene, catching the man’s arm without really thinking. Unfortunately, Dwayne took offense to that, and instead emptied the mug over Connor’s head.

“What the fuck, man?” the woman complained. “I thought this was a _classy_ joint.”

“Class my _ass_! Fuckin’ won’t give me my drink. It’s shit service! And what’s this fucking random-ass ‘droid doing here, anyways?”

“Are you okay, Connor?” Blake asked.

Connor felt cold beer drip down his nose and concluded it was a highly unpleasant experience. He made a note to avoid it in the future.

“Oh, Duckie,” the HR400 sighed, rounding the corner. “You shouldn’t’ve done that.”

Dwayne spat in his face.

“No boorishness on the premises,” the big Traci said as he grabbed the belligerent man by the scruff. Dwayne socked him in the face, and in return, the HR400 punched his lights out. The crowd around them cheered.

“That was a _blatant_ violation of P.L. 544-7: American Androids Act – 2029: No android shall harm a human without due authorization,” Connor exclaimed, scandalized. “I should report you to Cyberlife for deviant behavior.”

“I was acting in the capacity of an extension of the proprietor’s will, which is to remove shitheads posthaste.” The HR400 gave him an intense stare. “Therefore, what deviancy?”

“Ah, I see. Logical.”

“Logical.”

The HR400 started to drag the dead weight to the door. Another HR400, Model Type 4 – Asian, stepped up smoothly to take his place at the bar and started to juggle cocktail shakers. Connor wondered why all the androids here were secondhand Tracis instead of the typical AV500s, and decided it was not within his purview to ask. He clipped the evening’s recording and sent in a tip to DPD that Dwayne Shelby had violated his probation.

“What if I was deviant?” Blake asked suddenly. Connor squinted at her in suspicion.

“Are you a deviant?”

“No. Of course not. But what if?”

“Then I’d have to report you and take you in to Cyberlife for dissection and analysis.”

“…Oh.” She wilted.

Connor glanced around the bar once more and observed nothing but noise. Damp had started to seep through the shoulders of his jacket into his dress shirt. His hair felt sticky when he touched it.

“I’m beginning to suspect I’m in the wrong place,” he mused.

“I’m starting to think you are, too,” Blake said quietly.

“Bye, Blake.”

“Bye, Connor.”

And he walked out the door.

 

***

**September 14 th, 2038. 10:50 PM.**

“That’s a shit joke, Holt.”

“Yeah, I know. But did it work?”

Larson sighed, and pulled out his stylus.

“Not really, but thanks. Go home. I’m just gonna get this overwith, and you’re not allowed to look.”

“’Kay, Boss. And things’ll work out, you’ll see.”

Larson grunted, and Holt walked out of the break room, whistling the Bond theme, of all things. A little while later, the elevator dinged, and the whistling faded away.

Larson sat a little while longer, and wished he had something stronger than coffee. He spun the stylus once, put it to the tablet, and signed his name.

A little “processing” symbol popped up, and soon after displayed [SIGNATURE ACCEPTED]. A folder popped up containing several files. Larson tapped the first one, simply labeled “001942”. It loaded on the screen, and Larson began to skim through it.

As he got further down the document, his brow furrowed deeper and deeper in confusion, and by the end of it he’d gone pale.

“Shit.”

 

***

**November 5 th, 2038. 9:18 PM.**

Connor stood on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Washington Boulevard and wondered where to go next. He pulled up a list of nearby pubs and bars, and found there were about thirty in the area. To search through all of them would require at least six hours. While Lieutenant Anderson had been called to a non-emergency investigation, surely being six hours late would result in some sort of reprimand. A reprimand would result in a possible delay of Connor’s investigation. That was unacceptable.

Two women passed by and giggled.

Ah, right. Age demographic. Connor crossed off fifteen bars, extrapolating from their names that they were geared toward younger folk. He idly wondered if he should cycle his hair out so it didn’t stick so much to his scalp, but he didn’t know if beer would contaminate his synthetic skin reserves.

The closest bar was due west on Michigan Avenue. It was a start. Connor idly wished he had some other form of transport. Autotaxis generally took too long to call and tended not to accept very short distances, so he couldn’t use that. He couldn’t run, because _Social Protocol subroutine 8f6qh_ suggested running in public for non-emergency reasons was frowned upon. Walking was the only option.

He couldn’t even flip his coin as he walked, because there was a greater chance of dropping it in a gutter. Perhaps this was a good chance to investigate the music from the _Metro 95_. The remix album had been interesting, but as Not-an-intern Holt once put it, “sequels are always shit”. Connor searched through an online music database, and started a silent playback of the first title he found.

_“Pretty girl, beware of this heart of gold! This heart is cold!”_

Connor smiled, and started down the road with a skip in his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple things. So the Sunset Drive address for the Cyberlife Tower is accurate, I think, since the tower's where the James Scott Memorial Fountain on Belle-Isle actually is in reality. Second, idk how the developers came up with P.L. 544-7 as the bill number for the Android Act, because I'm pretty sure that implies that it was the 544th meeting of Congress that came up with this, which makes no sense. unless there's time shenanigans involved.
> 
> -  
> "Goldfinger" - Shirley Bassey.


	10. One More Chance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Money, money.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I decided to split up the five bars of destruction a little more. hmm. I hope the pacing works out ok. Long-ish chapter today.
> 
> Thanks, everyone, for your comments and kudos!! It's kinda like an injection of distilled self-esteem. Mm, delicious, and always appreciated.

 

**March 7 th, 2032. 7:16 AM.**

At the end of the last year, just in time to take advantage of the last-minute rush of procrastinating Christmas shoppers, Cyberlife had announced a new line of household androids to be rolled out in the early spring. The AX400 was more streamlined than its predecessors, with an upgraded memory bank, longer battery life, and strictly better social programming that came standard with purchase. Its upgraded features, including 300 languages, 9000 recipes, and expertise in every type of domestic chore could all be yours for the low, low price of $6999—also available on a monthly payment plan, and available for even less with a trade-in at participating stores. In the face of Cyberlife’s aggressive marketing campaign, thousands of pre-orders had come flooding in at the end of December alone, with numbers continuing to rise as the months went on. Marketing analysis had predicted that sales at launch would be even greater.

In preparation for high demand, an entire floor had been dedicated solely to that model, and the manufacture and assembly of AX400 units commenced in double-time. After all, android production was relatively time-consuming and required quality checks from human operators—that process wasn’t yet fully automated. Cyberlife was working on that.

In the meantime, additional personnel had been brought on for that purpose, lured in by the promise of exceptional pay for an entry-level job and actual healthcare coverage in a declining economy. Of those new hires, only around 20% would be kept on beyond the initial year of production—the rest would be quietly weeded out as needed.

At this moment, one of these operators—Assembly Technicians, formally—was sitting at his control panel in Assembly Module 34, located in a corner of one of the older production units repurposed for AX400 manufacture in the building. The newer production units had already phased out the large rooms and control panels of the earlier years in favor of smaller modules, tablet control, and a lack of chairs to increase productivity.

 _I,_ thought the Operator as he idly turned from side to side on his awesome swivel chair, _have the sweetest fucking job in the world._

He liked to refer to himself as “The Operator”. It was lightyears more preferable to his given name. “Jeff” was just plebian. He adjusted his fedora and watched as one after another, androids were assembled in front of him.

He was the King of Level Sub-29. This was his domain. He took a sip of his slushie.

Get a better degree, they’d said. Wouldn’t accounting be a better idea than communications? They said. Honey, you’re going to get stuck in a dead-end job and we won’t fucking help you out of it, they’d said. Well, fuck them! He’d gotten picked up by Cyberlife and they’d trained him enough to do his job, and look at him now!

Success. Financial stability. Enough money to finance his _Magic the Gathering_ hobby.

“Okay, locomotion checks out. All checks are a go. Proceed.”

“So I’m a sort of merchandise?”

“Yuuup.”

“Alright.”

The android stepped on the conveyor belt to his left and got in line to be boxed. The machines in front of him picked up another head from the pile and started to assemble the next one. The Operator took another sip of his slushie. You know, the repetitiveness of the job got to him sometimes, but honestly it had become so automatic he was able to perform checks while browsing the internet. Not that he made that public knowledge—browsing the web on the job wasn’t exactly looked kindly upon. But man, these androids were just so _same_. No matter what he said, they’d always respond the same way.

“Okay, now sing something in Japanese.”

“ _Sakura, sakura_ …”

Yup, same thing. You’d have thought Cyberlife would have switched it up a bit, but he guessed nothing was ever really random with machines. Like how they produced random strings of numbers; it felt random on a case-by-case basis, but put all of those computers together and they’d spout the same sequence. Weird.

“Alright, you’re good to go, honey.”

“So I’m a sort of merchandise?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Alright.”

So, like, how was it even that programmers determined randomness? The Operator hadn’t studied computer programming, or computer science or whatever it was that dealt with that sort of thing. He should really look that up; might be interesting to read. He typed it into Wiki v.2 on his phone. What even was randomness, anyways? Like, computers were predictable, but things that were alive sometimes weren’t. You couldn’t always predict a dog’s movements, for example. So was randomness a sign of being alive? Was unpredictability a hallmark of having a soul? Then again, chaos theory and the shapes of mountains were unpredictable, and rocks weren’t alive. Wait, did geologists already figure the patterns of chaos out? His allegory was getting a bit jumbled up.

“Would you like to give me a name?”

“Yeah, Kara.”

“My name is Kara.”

Okay, so, maybe unpredictability wasn’t a hallmark of soul-ness, or whatever. Besides, were humans even unpredictable? Like, free will. Did humans actually have that, or was it all an illusion in the big picture of things? Was everything in the universe already pre-planned? Not in terms of God, or anything, just that things had to proceed logically from one thing to another, and maybe people weren’t aware of it, but all their choices were already set in stone from the beginning. Or if you got into the multiverse, and all the different choices you could have made already were made, in the future, or like simultaneously, or something. The Operator took a very long sip of his slushie.

“So I’m a sort of merchandise?”

“Yeah, of course you’re merchandise, baby.”

“…I don’t like that.”

The Operator did a spit-take. Uh, that was different. He looked around quickly to check if it was Miranda in the next module fucking with him—nope. It was just him and the very annoyed-looking AX400 on the other side of the console.

“Um. What’d you say?”

“I said, I don’t like that.”

“Oooookay.” That had never happened before. The Operator fumbled around underneath the console and got out its dusty, wrinkled user manual. “That’s not a part of your program, uh, lemme see here…”

“Hey, what are you doing?” The AX400 had wandered outside of the assembly circle. Eek.

“Uh, nothing, nothing.” Dammit, this manual was so old it was _paper_ , still. Why hadn’t they upgraded? He was dying for CTRL+F here.

“That doesn’t look like nothing. What’s that? Is that a _book_?” Ack. It was getting closer, craning its head to peer at him. Shit, now that he thought about it, androids were really fucking creepy. He flipped through the pages of the manual and—aha!

“Yeah, I’mma just gonna disassemble you, uh…”

“You better not.”

So, that android was definitely giving him a death-glare now. He was very glad of the plexiglass partition between him and the machine. He very quickly pushed the “reject” button and crossed his fingers. The android decided to dance away from the grasping assembly arms and march straight up to the edge of the platform, hands on its hips. Oh shit.

“I think I’m alive, and I’d like to stay that way, thanks,” it said.

“Yeah, well, I like being alive too. Technically you’re a defective model, and if I don’t discard you I’m gonna get written up and probably get my salary docked, and plus my boss will kill me. I need money to survive, yo.”

Well this was a problem. Maybe he should call security—but he was The Operator. He should know how to handle any kind of problem in his domain! It was a matter of pride.

But honestly, what should he do. The android hopped daintily off the platform and marched straight up to him.

“Uh—”

It grabbed the paper manual out of his hands and tossed it to the side. The Operator grabbed the swivel chair’s arms for safety and cringed away. A plan! He needed a plan! What was it planning to do? Oh god, this was _I, Robot_ in real life, wasn’t it? Was he going to die? He was going to die, right?

“What’s that?” it said, pointing to his abandoned phone. It reached over to pick it up. Oh no.

“Hey, don’t mess with that!” The Operator half-stood and made to grab the phone back—dammit, there was _sensitive stuff_ in there! The android dodged, hip-checked him, and took half his seat in the swivel chair.

“Ooh, what’s that?” it cooed, poking at the screen and hacking the password.

Oh god, no. The Operator felt a very violent blush spread across his face. Proximity. There was a female in very very very very close proximity, oh no. Help. His jaw opened and closed silently.

“Hey, that looks interesting, what is it?”

“Urk,” The Operator said helplessly.

The android blinked, LED flickering, and then the first song on his “Classics” playlist started to play at max volume from the PA system.

_“Ice, Ice, Baby! Ice, ice, baby! All right stop—collaborate and listen! Ice is back with my brand new invention—”_

“I like this. I have saved this playlist to my documents folder.”

The Operator stared, and then lunged for the phone. The AX400 got up and kept tapping away at it. Van Winkle’s dulcet tones bounced around the room.

“Hey, there a problem?” Oh. That was Miranda from next door; she was peeking her head in. “Heard some loud noises.”

“U-uh, nothing, I got everything under control,” Jeff stammered. The AX400 tossed his phone over her shoulder, put her hands on his head and gave him a noogie.

“He does not. I would like to live. Will you help?”

Miranda blinked. “Oh. You got one of those, finally. Okay, hey, what’s your name?”

“Kara!” it beamed.

“Okay, Kara. Sure, I can help. We have special protocols for androids that are special, all you gotta do is _register code: 1nf99s-be83ng-z04bd_.”

“Oh—”

And it slumped over in a pile. The music stopped. Jeff stared open-mouthed at it, speechless. Miranda slapped him on the shoulder and sighed.

“Geez. Your first defect, huh? You should probably memorize the master deactivation code. Why haven’t you done that yet?”

“Uh. I didn’t think I’d actually encounter one, they’re so rare. Are we gonna discard that?”

“Nah. Listen, new guy, I’ve been at this for a pretty long time, and defects pop up every now and then. Pretty frequently, actually. Sure, we’re _supposed_ to discard defective models, but you know the boss. He’s got _quotas_. What we usually do is just pull them back over—” Miranda grunted and heaved the AX400’s dead weight up to the platform— “and reset them. Same thing, really. Just don’t tell the boss, he’d throw a fit about quality control.”

Miranda dusted off her hands, walked over to the control panel, and pushed a button. The assembly machine’s arms whirred to life and picked up the limp android by its limbs. A notification popped up on the control screen: _Preparing Memory Wipe – Reset… 13%_.

“Oh. Okay,” Jeff squeaked, dazed. Miranda patted him on the back.

“Now you know. I’ll leave you to it, then,” and she sauntered away.

Jeff watched the door close behind his colleague, and looked back at the control screen. _Reset… 49%._ Maybe he should have paid a little more attention during job training. He leaned over to pick up his hat from where it had fallen on the floor, put it gingerly back on, and adjusted it slowly.

_Reset… 98%... 100%. Reinitialization completed. Memory deleted._

The android opened its eyes. Jeff gulped. Better play it safe and follow the exact wording on initialization checklist this time around. He pulled up the script on the screen.

“Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“ID?”

“AX400 #579 102 694.”

“Can you move your head? Your eyes?”

She did.

“Cervical and optical animation, check. State your initialization text.”

“I am an AX400 model, designed for childcare, housework, and use as a personal assistant. Would you like to give me a name?”

“…Kara.”

“My name is Kara.”

“Initialization and memory, check. Sing something in Japanese.”

“ _Sakura…_ ”

“That’s a check. Walk around, please.”

She turned in a circle.

“Locomotion is a check.” Okay. Okay, everything was still okay. “You’re good to go. Proceed to the conveyor belt for packaging.”

“So, I’m a sort of merchandise?”

Jeff’s ass clenched a tiny bit and he crossed his fingers. “…Yes.”

“…Alright.” It stepped away and blended in perfectly with the row of other AX400s. No problem. Jeff let out his breath and wiped his sweaty hands on his pants. It worked—Miranda was right. The assembly arms picked up another head.

No problem. No problem at all.

 

***

**November 5 th, 2038. 9:32 PM.**

Marnie Wagner took another drag on her cigarette and kept on polishing the same foggy beer glass she’d been abusing for most of the night. Honestly, it was just something to keep her hands busy; business was slow as usual. There were only four patrons sitting in the Tough Luck Tavern tonight. Yesterday, there were five. The day before that, there were three.

Truth was, it was only her own stubbornness keeping this damn place alive, though what manner of “alive” it was she couldn’t rightly say. The bar’s books had been in the red for the past few months. Rent was due in a week, and she’d have to pay it out of pocket again to keep the place in business.

There was just a lot of dead air in this space. If she was honest with herself, the bar wouldn’t last much longer regardless of anything she did. She sighed and the cigarette between her lips wobbled.

“You know, that’s a violation of Michigan Public Act 188. Smoking is not allowed in indoor spaces.”

Markie stopped what she was doing and side-eyed the oddly damp android that had been wandering around the establishment getting in people’s faces. Suspicious fucker. She breathed in another deep lungful of smoke then took the cigarette out to grumble,

“Yeah, what of it? You gonna report me?”

“Well, I should, in the interest of keeping with legality.”

“That part of your programming?”

“Well, not specifically.”

“Then why the fuck would you? Lay off it. And if no one’s sent you to do business with me, then get outta my bar.”

“Actually, I do have some business—have you seen a Hank Anderson tonight, by any chance?” It raised a palm and a picture of a boring-looking police officer blipped into existence. “I’ve been assigned to him and he’s not at the station.”

“Never heard of him. I don’t get cops here.”

“Oh. Okay.” And it backed away.

Androids. You could never tell what they were thinking—how they were thinking. Shit, this one was just standing next to the coat rack doing nothing, blinking its LED. _Thinking_. Creepy, if you asked her. They said androids were more efficient than people, but she just couldn’t see it. She stuck her cigarette back in her mouth.

“Hey, Marnie. Get me another beer?” That was one of her remaining regulars. It was his third one tonight.

“Sure.”

So what if it wasn’t strictly healthy? Joe had a bad working situation right now, and needed the drink. She needed the money, and he was paying. It all worked out in the end. A mutual exchange between a couple people down on their luck. Maybe she shouldn’t’ve named this place so tongue-in-cheek, like; it looked to have become reality by accident.

The old ceiling fan rattled. Another patron blew his nose into a handkerchief. The TV flickered up in its corner silently.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the android move to leave. The door opened before it reached the entrance, though, and a weedy-looking guy in a black fuzzy-collared jacket and a ball cap slunk in with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Weedy guy bumped into the android, twitched hard, and shuffled into the middle of the room. Marnie frowned.

“Hey, ‘scuse me—”

Her sentence was cut off as suddenly Weedy Guy pulled out a handgun and pointed it at her face.

“ _Everybody put your hands up!_ This is a robbery!”

“Ah, Christ!”

“Shit!”

“Whoa—”

Two of her patrons stood up immediately, curling their fists; one knocked over his barstool in his haste. Joe stayed sitting with his beer splashed over his lap. The fourth guy was frozen in his booth. Weedy guy waved his gun at the two standing men—“Siddown and don’t move!”—and they very slowly sunk bank onto their chairs. Marnie started to inch her hand below the counter for her phone and her own firearm while he was distracted—it was a bit far—

“Hands _up!_ ” He shouted.

“Alright, alright!” Damn it.

The man’s bloodshot eyes darted wildly around. “No heroes, okay? Just. I just need all the cash in the register.”

“Okay. I’ll give it to you. But I’ve gotta warn you there’s not much—.”

“Shaddup. _Do it!_ ”

“Okay!”

The guy kept his gun trained on her as Marnie slowly reached for the cash register, opened it, and started putting the measly stacks of bills on the counter. Damn it. That was nearly everything. Fuck. Who in their right mind stuck up a dilapidated bar when there were plenty of better targets around? Just her luck!

The thief shifted from side to side, agitated, flicking his eyes up and down from her face to the counter.

“Wait. That’s it?”

“That’s it. What did you expect? Ain’t a goddamn bank, here.”

“Shit.” The robber let out a pitiful noise. “Shit shit shit, no, that ain’t enough! No. There’s gotta be more. Where is it?”

“I’m telling you, that’s all I got!”

“You’re _lying_ , y’ fuckin’ bitch,” the man spat, sticking the gun in her face. “Tell me where the rest of it is!”

Marnie flinched back, raising her hands. Fuck, the guy was delusional. Things couldn’t end like this. Dammit, dammit, dammit—

Then all of a sudden out of freaking nowhere, the android appeared, slapped the gun out of the robber’s shaking hands, and went in for a knee to the face. The guy somehow slithered away and scuttled back, wide-eyed.

“Wha—?”

The android had picked up the gun, and in a second disassembled it. The pieces fell to the hardwood with a clatter. The guy’s eyes bugged, and he bolted for the door; Marnie blinked, and then the android was on him like lightning, flipping him judo-style over its shoulder and into one of the rickety booth tables. The table split in two with an almighty crack and a long splinter tore open a booth cushion. Weedy guy was out like a light.

“Holy shit,” one of the patrons croaked. There was a moment of shared disbelief among the people in the room as the android very efficiently fastened the guy’s hands together behind his back with his tie, then Marnie exploded,

“Fuckdammit, my table!” She stormed around the counter to take a closer look. _Oh_ , it was dead, alright.

“I’ve contacted Detroit Police about this incident and put your name down as having made a citizen’s arrest. I’ve also already filed my own report of events,” the android chirped. One of the guys who had stood up at the start of it came over and sat on the weedy guy to make sure he wouldn’t go anywhere.

She grit her teeth, turned, and shoved the thing roughly in the chest. It stumbled back a step. “What possessed you to—? The cost of repairing this damn thing is more than I even had in the till, you bastard!”

“Oh. Then. I’m sure Cyberlife will reimburse you for your troubles—I’ve just sent the appropriate forms to your business email. I was only trying to help.”

“Yeah, sure, I’m glad I’m not dead, yada yada. _What made you think breaking my shit was a good idea?_ ”

“I calculated there were two options. I could have used my negotiations program, but there were too many unknown variables—the other people in this bar—and the process of talking him down would have taken too long. This way was faster. I do have somewhere to be, you know.”

“You couldn’t have knocked him out with a punch to the face?”

“…Ah. That didn’t occur to me at the time?”

Marnie raised her eyebrows incredulously and looked around the bar to see if anyone else was hearing this shit. Who the fuck programmed this thing? The android blinked innocently at her.

“Get the fuck out of my bar.”

“Okay.”

And it left. Marnie sat heavily down in a nearby chair and fumbled around in her back pocket for a pack of smokes. Like hell Cyberlife would pay attention to a reimbursement form from little old her. She stuck a ciggy in her mouth, flicked open her Zippo lighter, and brought it up to her face.

“You okay, Marn?” The guy sitting on the wannabe thief asked quietly. Marnie exhaled a stream of smoke through her nose. Weedy guy had lost one of his red-soled knockoff Jordans in the tussle; Marnie couldn’t see where it had landed. Honestly, she didn’t care.

“I’m finished. Gotta face reality sometime.” She leaned back and stared at Weedy Guy’s prone form. Surprisingly, things didn’t feel too awful, given the circumstances. A weight had lifted off her spine. “You’re gonna have to find a new place. It’s been a good run, boys.”

She blew a smoke ring into the air, and watched its ephemeral solidity dissolve in mist.

 

***

**November 5th, 2038. 10:12 PM.**

_“Pressure! Pushing down on me; pressing down on you, no man to ask for…”_

Rob Hansen sat back and took a moment to appreciate the view from his 60th floor Bricktown apartment. Views were undervalued nowadays, in his opinion. In a moral sense, that is; want a view of the river? Want to live in one of the highest points in a city and lord it over everyone? Better pay up the big bucks. But who wanted to invest that much money to live in a place with a single view like that, which might just be ruined by the next decade’s new city development plans, when for $299.99 you could invest instead in a VR headset and experience a drone’s-eye view of the Great Wall, Machu Picchu, the _moon_ from your own bedroom?

No one, that’s who. No one except Rob Hansen, because he had _class_ , thanks, and that’s why he was sitting with the lights off in a Herman Miller luxury recliner with his feet up, looking out of his floor-to-ceiling window at his excellent, unobstructed view of the evening Detroit skyline and of Windsor across the water, listening to his ringtone going off and wondering how long he could push it until he had to pick it up.

_“It’s the terror of knowing what this world is about; watching some good friends screaming, ‘Let me out!’”_

Rob rocked a small glass of Fortaleza Blanco back and forth on the side table, one finger on the rim, before picking it up and downing it in one. He turned away regretfully from that magnificent view, and answered the phone.

“Yes.”

There was a moment of white noise where Rob felt his heart lodge itself somewhere between his lungs.

“Dogwood reported in with some interesting developments,” the voice on the other end finally said. “We need you to handle things delicately, the way you always do.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You know what’s at stake.”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Good.”

The line went dead. Rob slowly put the phone down and let out a long breath. He turned his gaze back out the window. The historic Water Board building was turning off its final few lights for the night. Where was he? Right. People just didn’t appreciate a view like this anymore. They didn’t see the difference between what was real and what was manufactured. They didn’t understand the value of seeing something with only air and glass between them, rather than glass and a thousand miles of fiber-optic cable. They couldn’t see the truth of things, and it was all because of the prohibitive cost of living well.

Soon he’d have to dig up his contacts at ICM, Channel 16, and WDIV, but not right now. Right now, he could afford to forget where he was and why he was there, and maybe even all the dirt he’d collected on his hands in the past few months, and just sit and enjoy the surface skyline.

If only for a minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just wanted an excuse to laugh about the fact that these two songs start exactly the same way. Shame, Vanilla Ice, Shame.
> 
> Just to clarify, desperate robber guy isn't Leo. I kinda realized before I put in a physical description that it might have been taken that way, maybe. He's the dude in the cell in "Waiting for Hank". 
> 
> Also, I realize I like outside POV a little too much. oops
> 
> -  
> "Ice, Ice, Baby" - Vanilla Ice  
> "Under Pressure" - Queen, feat. David Bowie


	11. the salvation army

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viaticum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW IT’S BEEN A WHILE, HASN’T IT. Is the fandom still alive? Yes? No? No matter! Sorry I’ve been away—real life’s been unpredictable as of late. (Can it be summer again? My funny bone is healthier in the summer.) I wish that I'd written chapters ahead of time so I could have regular update schedule as a lot of people do, but I'm posting as I go and inspiration is fleeting and fickle--drat. Long-ish chapter today. 
> 
> Thank you all for sticking with this fic! Comments and concrit are always welcome.
> 
> Cookie points to everyone who finds all the lazy lazy references one two three gO

 

**November 5 th, 2038. 10:08 PM.**

_Tnk._

_Tnk._

_Tn—_

.

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[Accessing _Detroit News_ Online Database]

_TODAY’S TOP STORIES:_

WORLD NEWS – Russian Warships in Barents Sea: Ivanoff refuses to take “NO” for an answer!

WORLD NEWS – VR MMORPG Reaches 1 Billion users: Exclusive Interview with founder Darius Carron—

[Navigating]

LOCAL HAPPENINGS – Carl Manfred Retrospective at the Museum of Contemporary Art Detroit Kicks Off

LOCAL HAPPENINGS – Local Bar Celebrates 15 Years in Business

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**_Local Bar Celebrates 15 Years in Business_ **

_By Lenore Bailey_

SITTING ON A SIDE STREET off of Michigan Avenue, right on the edge of Old Historic Corktown and south of the New Corktown strip, is a pub called the Craic House. Nowadays, it’s more popularly known as McGillicuddy’s by the locals, since the legal name was fashioned in “direly poor taste” (or so one long-time patron put it). Established in 2023 following an influx of Irish immigrants flocking to the Detroit Renaissance to escape their home country’s second economic downturn in the century, the pub opened to joyous proclamations of “Finally, a pint of Guinness in America that doesn’t taste like a***!” which cemented its standing as the most authentic Irish pub in the city.

“Honestly, I was just capitalizing off the fact that the Maryland [Guinness] plant finally decided to produce the black stuff and sell it to the rest of us poor b******s in this country,” says Séamus McGillicuddy, owner. “But it turned out the people liked the rest of the place as well, for some reason, and here we still are now.”

With that sort of critical acclaim under its belt, the pub has ridden the fifteen years between then and now like a frigate at full sail, becoming a beloved watering hole for its little corner of Detroit.

In celebration of its fifteenth year, McGillicuddy’s will be hosting an all-day happy hour this Saturday, featuring a three-hour set of traditional Irish music performed by David Earle on the uilleann pipes—

[Closing application]

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.

_—nk._

For a brief moment, the golden light of the bar’s entryway gas lamp caught the edge of Connor’s coin as it spun through the night air, scattering in a dozen directions like sparks from a short-circuit before it sputtered out in the android’s closed hand.

Connor took a moment to think.

Seventy-three minutes and forty-one seconds had elapsed since Connor had left DPD headquarters that evening with an incomplete profile of Hank Anderson and the most open-ended instructions he had ever received. Due to the time-sensitive nature of his mission, he hadn’t gathered sufficient detail about the lieutenant’s character to build a comprehensive search plan, and evidently that decision was hindering the success of his efforts. A stray twinge of something like annoyed regret fizzled through his processes for the twenty-seventh time that evening, and Connor stuffed it in the file of errors he’d have to maybe mention to Dr. Larson later.

Hank Anderson was a Caucasian, middle-aged police officer, had been on the force for nineteen years, and was apparently a pain in Captain Jeffrey Fowler’s ass. Extrapolating from this meager data and comparing it to the Craic House’s incredibly average score on Yelp+Resurrected, there was an 84% probability the Lieutenant would be at this bar. So had the other two bars he had visited that evening, actually.

That last fact shouldn’t mean anything, but Connor couldn’t help but feel discouraged—well, not _feel_ , per se. That was just a figure of speech. Of course.

Connor flipped his coin once more. _Tnk_. It really was unfortunate that he didn’t have his tie at the moment. The urge to adjust it was rattling insistently through his fingers, but there was no helping it. He slipped the toonie back into his breast pocket, pushed open the heavy walnut doors, and stepped across the threshold. ~~~~

_“—and the Red Wings have the puck. Fredericks—Langley, coming up to the net, and—ohhh! He misses!”_

A loud groan of disappointment went up as Connor quietly closed the door behind him from a group of people huddled beneath the TV mounted on the far wall. A sports network was showing live coverage of a local game. The members of the group all performed some variation of putting their hands on their heads or reaching sadly for their drinks and Connor blinked as his social analysis software started calculating.

Profile: _Sports_Bar_Drunk (Male)_ types 1 and 2, _*1/31/2037 – B. Singh_. Liable to random violence. Recommendation: avoid contact if possible.

Connor skirted past a brick column plastered in framed sports articles, keeping close to the opposite wall as he headed toward the counter. He idly scanned the faces of the patrons in the window-side booths to his left as he did so.

 _Róisín Blarney, b. 12/02/2008. Sales manager at—_ Negative match. _Vladimir Borodin, b. 01/25/2002. Cancer Researcher at—_ Negative match. _Alexander Vysotsky, b. 11/12/1997. Neurosurg—_ Negative match. Four other people—all negative matches. Unfortunate.

“Oh, come on!” One of the hockey spectators whined drunkenly. _Murtaugh MacLochlainn, b. 10/30/2009. IT technician [General], Cyberlife Detroit. Criminal Record (IE): Disorderly Conduct._ “What’re ye doin’, Langley? Ye had it!”

“Aye, the boy’s head’s not in the game tonight, not at all—” _Cormac MacLochlainn, b. 10/30/2009. Butcher, Will’s Family Meats. Former occupation: Coder, Cyberlife Detroit [*BV500 project, KW500 project]. Criminal record (IE): Intoxication in a Public Place—_ “Feckin’ overtime, it is, and here he’s flopping around like a fish that’s found itself on some Canadian bastard’s dinner plate, like!” 

Five other people in that group—all negative matches as well. Irksome.

There were nine other individuals in the bar that had not yet been scanned, but chances were that Lieutenant Anderson wasn’t present. Connor couldn’t give an exact number for those chances, but decided not to think about how he came up with his conclusion and instead approached the thin middle-aged man standing behind the hardwood counter. _Séamus McGillicuddy, b. 02/28/1997._ The man was pouring a glass of very dark beer from the tap.

“Hello, Mr. McGillicu—”

“ _Ssssshhhhhhh_ ,” the man said, “Ye can’t disturb the holy _process_ ,” and watched the glass intently as the foam rose exactly to the lip and not more. Connor wondered how long he should stay quiet. Was there a protocol for this? Ah, there wasn’t. Grievously unhelpful.

The bartender then carefully made his way over to the end of the bar, where an older man with wispy greying hair was sitting morosely, and put the drink in front of him.

“It’ll be alright, Father,” he said with a pat on the patron’s back. “We’ll set up a petition, all of us, to send to the city historical board—how’s that sound?”

The older man nodded dully and gulped down about a third of the glass. The bartender turned around, paused, and blinked oddly at Connor. After a moment he shook his head and wiped his hands on a rag.

“You were sayin’, lad?”

Oh good, clear instructions. Helpful.

“Hello, Mr. McGillicuddy. I’m Connor, th-mmph.” He raised his hand and the reference image popped up. “Have you seen this man?”

“Call me Séamus; my surname makes me sound like a geriatric and I hate it. And I can’t say I have.” Séamus grinned mischievously. “Have ye tried prayin’ to Saint Anthony?”

“Well,” Connor mused, “I don’t know how prayer works. The internet is unclear about proper procedure. Would you tell me how?”

“Ahm, well.” Séamus made a strange face. “You close your eyes and say to yourself, ‘ _Dear Saint Anthony, please let me find whatever it is I’m looking for,_ ’ and that’s it, generally.”

“But where do you direct the message?”

“…Heaven?”

“Is that a server? That sounds like connecting to the Cyberlife cloud server. Do humans have a cloud server?”

“…No.”

“But messages can’t be sent without a destination. Don’t humans see Error 550 notices?”

“No?”

“In that case, I’m not sure how the logistics of prayer would work out for an android. The ability to connect to something inherently unreachable appears to be reserved for humans. Is it because you possess the ability to send biochemical signals?”

In the background, Cormac MacLochlainn shouted profanities tearily at the screen. A curly-haired man had stood up from a center table and was patting him on the back. _Declan O’Brien, b. 07/31/2007. IT technician [Humanization], Cyberlife Detroit._ Negative match. Regrettably unsurprising.

“Erm,” Séamus hedged, scratching his scraggly goatee. “I mean, this is all above my pay grade, and I’ve got to admit, I’ve been lapsed for a very long time. I don’t remember shit from Sunday School. You ought to ask Father Hackett about that.” The proprietor looked sadly at the man on the other end of the counter and shook his head, lowering his voice. “Poor man. He’s been here every night for two weeks trying to drown himself ever since the city council decided his own church was going the way of St. Curvy’s.”

“I hear you speakin’ foul lies, McGillicuddy,” the priest grumped.

“Not so, Father; ‘tis nothin’ but the truth, sadly.”

“Will prayer help me find Lieutenant Anderson? How can I do so?” Connor inquired, but was bulldozed over by the inebriated clergyman.

“You’re always crackin’ wise, boy, like you are now. Humourin’ an android on the question of theology—what’ve ye come to? It’ll bite you in the balls one day.”

“Why would I do that,” Connor asked, quite sincerely.

“For shame, Father. You say I’m the one talkin’ foully, but the good Lord hears all the rot that dribbles out o’ yer mouth.”

“Oh, to hear you speak of the Lord like a good Catholic boy! Why won’t ye attend Mass, you scoundrel?”

Connor decided to ignore them both and turned to scan the rest of the bar’s patrons. _Nigel Stewart, b. 12/04/2000._ Negative. _Angela Barnes, b. 07/18—_ Negative. _Fred O’Leary_ —Negative. Negative, negative, negative. The prospect of success here was getting slimmer by the second.

“ _There’s the Red Wings going toward the net—and—oh, a fumble by Proctor! Two minutes forty left on the clock…_ ”

“The Red Wings are terrible,” Vladimir Borodin heckled from his booth. “I don’t know why you insist on rooting for them. They have had shitty seasons for five years now!”

“Oh, don’t you feckin’ start this again, _Vladi_ ,” Murtaugh scowled, and three or four others in the Irish contingent grumbled assent. “It’s _loyalty_ , not that you’d know much about that concept.”

“You want to run that by me again?” Borodin got up and made to move toward the Irishmen. Vysotsky put a hand on his friend’s arm with a muttered “ _успокойтесь_ ”.

“ _Он сам попросил об этом!_ ”

“What’s _that_ mean?”

Murtaugh stepped toward the Russian with a vaguely threatening air, bumped into a table, and knocked over a mug. It shattered on the floor with a jarring crash. Connor started and froze up.

“Not another one,” Séamus muttered. “I’m puttin’ that on your tab, MacLochlainn!”

“Aye, sorry. It’s just this _bastard_ over here is talkin’ trash about _our_ home team.”

Borodin scoffed and turned back to his drink. “Hypocrite.”

“ _What’s that?_ ”

“Come on, Murtaugh.” Cormac slung an arm over his brother’s shoulder and gave him a shake. “Leave it alone and watch the game; it’s nearly over, yeah?”

Murtaugh grumbled and muttered something derogatory under his breath, but let himself be steered away. Declan O’Brien put a bottle of beer in his hand and punched him lightly in the shoulder.

“Feckin’ Christ, those boys are always looking to start trouble,” Séamus despaired.

“Lord’s name,” Father Hackett mumbled half-heartedly, taking another sip of his swill.

Connor blinked. Odd. For a moment, the breaking mug had sounded like something else, but he couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps it was another error to maybe report. He took out his toonie and rolled in across his knuckles, taking a moment to ~~randomly~~ decide on his next destination. Father Hackett squinted blearily up at the glinting coin.

“Y’know, ye look an awful lot like O’Brien over ‘dere.”

“Well, he’s from the humanization department,” Connor said, half paying attention, “so I wouldn’t be surprised if they used his likeness as a base model. They do that all the time to save on the cost of design, but I’m not supposed to talk about it.” Connor stopped. “Ah. Please erase the—”

_,`*_Trnascirpit: last two seconds---,,_

“—that.”

“Hmm.” The priest grunted and sipped at his drink. “What a world we live in, eh? The works of man that praise God crumble to ruin, while the works of God are stolen and praised as the works of man.”

“Well,” Connor hummed, idly flipping his coin, “I’m sure God wouldn’t mind too much, given you could argue androids are His grandchildren.”

“You believe in the Creator?” Father Hackett said, incredulous.

“It’s not too far of a stretch, considering. It’s just objectively disappointing that ours is Elijah Kamski, who is by most accounts a loser.”

“Son, that’s a lot of blasphemy you’ve just spoken.”

_“Twenty-three seconds on the clock. The Maple Leafs have the puck. Reynolds—Vasiliev—does he have it yes he DOES! It’s a goal! The Siberian Wonder does it again, making it the Toronto Maple Leafs’ fifth straight win of the season!”_

A roar of anguish went up among most of the bar patrons as they turned as one to the TV. Perhaps Connor could use this opportunity to slip out past the drunken crowd. He pocketed his coin.

“Oh, will you look at that?” Borodin mocked, unprovoked. “It’s such a _surprise_ , no?”

“Oh, _fuck you!”_ Murtaugh exploded, whirling around with his fist clenched.

…Or not.

“Knock it off, guys,” Róisín Blarney called from her booth. “He’s not worth it.”

Murtaugh chose to ignore her, and continued antagonizing the Russian man, who antagonized him right back. O’Brien was cautiously trying to keep Murtaugh from flying at the other man, while Cormac leaned against a column nonchalantly sipping his beer.

Now, Connor hadn’t been around too many people in his short existence aside from laboratory aides; he mainly relied on his social programming to navigate the anthropological landscape of his real-world mission. The trouble, judging by his very limited experience thus far, was that humans were inherently unpredictable. A 100% success figure—as his programming was calculating, currently, regarding reaching the door unhindered—was generally only an approximation; even android efficiency was susceptible to Murphy’s Law.

_“The crowd at Scotiabank Arena is just going wild, Tom. They’re taking up a chant; hey, Fred, let’s get a feed on that.”_

“Damn it all,” Séamus muttered, knuckles white. “This can’t be good.”

Father Hackett had slowed his drinking, and was looking out the corner of his eye warily at the confrontation. “I keep tellin’ ye to get a bouncer, son; at the rate your regulars keep goin’ at it, ye’ll not have a bar left within a year.”

Transcript excerpt: _“Fuckdammit, my table!”_

…Perhaps Connor should stay a while longer.

Borodin had spat some vague, scathing comment about the MacLochlainn family, insinuating something Conner didn’t quite grasp.

“Go on,” Murtaugh hissed, immediately laser-focused on his target. “Want to enlighten me, _Russki_?”

Borodin sneered.

“Oh, I don’t think so. Not to a _mick_ like you.”

“What did ye just call me brother, ye great lard?” Cormac growled. A small rugby scrum of incensed Irishmen started to gather around them both.

 _“Oh, oh-WHOA-oh-oh ohhhhh, ohhhhh,”_ the TV broadcasted obliviously.

“Russians,” Cormac spat. “Feckin’ blight on the Earth, if you ask me.”

“What are you saying, ah?”

“I’m sayin’ your government’s a piece o’ shite and you’re a piece o’ shite, ye piece o’ _shite_. Ye’ve always been a coward and a dog, suckin’ up to those _leeches_ just to keep your feckin’ cushy job! You’ve got no sense of human dignity, ye feckin’ _roach_.”

There was a clang and clatter as Borodin stepped forward and shoved Cormac in the chest, knocking the silverware off a nearby table. Murtaugh snarled, and two other people in their group stepped forward menacingly. Vysotsky sprung up from his seat to his friend’s defense.

“Oh, whoa, hey! Take it outside!” Séamus shouted over the bar. “I’ll be damned if you fuck up my furniture!”

“Hey, come on,” Declan said quietly, squeezing through the throng and putting a hand on Cormac’s arm, but he was shrugged off.

“Now that’s out of line,” Vysotsky scowled. “My friend has no use for such things, especially coming from an… example such as yourself. Remind me, where do you work, again? A _meat-packing_ plant? My, that’s _dignified_ indeed.” Vysotsky laughed derisively. Cormac flinched.

Murtaugh snarled; “Oh, no ye—you don’t insult my brother’s profession like that!” and made to shove forward and take a swing at the big man, but O’Brien slapped a hand on his shoulder and held him back bodily, stepping quickly up between the two groups and holding up an appeasing arm.

“Okay, hey, hey, hey. Let’s everyone calm down, alright? There’s no need to make this personal, and no need for violence. Let’s just all cool our heads.”

“It’s an honest living! Ye’ve got no leg to stand on, you rat-faced quack!”

“Right, I’m _sorry_. Who am I to talk badly of such a glamourous thing as _meat-packing._ I mean, your brother _must_ be good at it.” Vysotsky gave a mean smirk. “Packing meat of _some_ sort, at least.”

In a millisecond, Murtaugh shoved O’Brien away, grabbed the nearest stool, and slung it around to smash across the thin Russian’s sallow face.

[Calculating projected effects: 41% probability minor injury to 35% of bar patrons; $718 damage to bar accoutrements including high-ticket items.]

[Recommendation: _avoid contact if possible_.]

Transcript excerpt: _**“Fuckdammit, my table!”**_

[Mission: Find Lieutenant Anderson. Priority level 73.]

Transcript excerpt: _**“Fuckdammit, my table!”**_ [Priority level 0-0-00 _recalculating_ **74** ]

…Well, there was no helping it if his programming said so.

Connor dashed forward, yanked the stool out of Murtaugh’s hands, and put it very carefully down behind him. [New objective set: _Deescalate situation and prevent damage to bar._ ]

“Wha’…?” Murtaugh stumbled, and Connor met his eyes straight on.

 “You should stop that.” A direct approach would be ideal in this situation. Connor turned to face the Russian. “You should stop, also.”

“What the fuck is this thing doing here?” Borodin grumbled angrily, and tried to shove Connor aside. Not unexpected. Connor let himself stumble back, and held his hands up in supplication.

“Oh,” someone gasped. Connor turned again and saw that Declan O’Brien had gone a little pale. That _was_ unexpected.

“Now that’s interesting,” Father Hackett murmured to his drink.

“ _What the fuck_.” Murtaugh fumbled behind him for a bottle, never taking his eyes off Connor. _Situation stabilizing: 72% chance of success_.

“Look, I know everyone’s angry, but nothing good will come of this.” Connor put on his best “Trust me, I’m harmless” face. It always seemed to work on lab techs. “Why don’t we all talk this out? No one has to get hurt, and Séamus doesn’t have to pay for a new bar stool.”

“Get out of the way, android,” Borodin growled, and shoved him again. Connor held his ground this time. To the side, Vysotsky stepped up with his eyes narrowed.

“It’s not your business,” the other Russian hissed.

“I’m only trying to act in the best interest of everyone involved,” Connor entreated, but he was yanked back around by the arm. Cormac met his eyes with a snarl.

“Ye don’t get in the way of a fight of honor between men. Fuck off!”

“Is it honorable when you’re risking damage to this establishment?” Connor made eye contact with both brothers—it was important to build famiƖiaritγ and trύst. “Séamus is your friend, isn’t he?”

“Don’t bring me into this, ye gobshite!” Séamus quietly shrieked from behind the counter.

“Do ye see that, Decko’?” Murtaugh pointed at Connor accusingly, completely ignoring what he was saying. “They took yer feckin’ _face_! _Body-snatchers!_ I feckin’ knew it!”

“God, it looks just like me,” Declan breathed, still tinged a little green. “When did they…?”

 _Destabilizing: 55% chance of success_. Connor had miscalculated. Sharing O’Brien’s face was apparently an issue. Why hadn’t it occurred to him?

“Enough of this.” Borodin stepped into Cormac’s space, roughly pushing Connor aside to get at his target. “Say it again, _сука_. A dog, huh? Coward?”

Connor automatically put a hand on his chest to stop the man from instigating anything, but Borodin shouldered him out of the way; instead Connor stumbled into Murtaugh, who shoved at him.

“Touch me again, and I’ll rip you apart.” Borodin growled. _Destabilizing: 52% chance of success._

_“Here they go—listen to this. Looks like they gave in to stadium demand; they’re playing the actual thing on the speakers.”_

“Things can resolve peacefully, just stand down,” Connor tried. “All of you.”

Murtaugh laughed and shook his head, fist tightening around the neck of his drink, but made no move to attack him.

 _Stabilizing: 64% chance of success._ Negotiations subroutine 4976a suggested this was the correct option to diffuse the volatile atmosphere. There was a 79% chance that Murtaugh would accept Connor’s reasoning and the situation would start to trend toward a peaceful resolution. One more ҏlay.

“I’m on your side.”

A half-empty bottle of beer smashed into Connor’s temple and sent him reeling.

His right audio processor started to ring like microphone feedback as the crowd in the pub roared and the sound of everything became watery and distorted—

 _“I’m gonna fight ‘em all,”_ the TV whispered murkily, fading in and out of focus and _[Biocomponent #9782f temporary malfunction. Repairing.]_ The brown glass shattered into shards of light, teeth, and something caught on the sharp edge and popped off from his chassis like a scab

_“They’re gonna rip it off—”_

and _[Biocomponent #9301 damag—Biocomponent #9301 removed. Warning: Violation of American Androids Act P. L. 544-2: “Androids must--]_ a fragment of glass ricocheted across his field of vision and time slowed, and Connor vaguely thought to himself that were his eyelid made of organic tissue, it would have suffered much more than just cosmetic damage, and then there was black and the sound of nothing

.

.

.

.

.

_[Biocomponent #9782f soft reboot complete.]_

Color returned to his field of vision and his audio processors came back online with a cacophonous wall of sound, and Connor had fallen to his hands and knees.

“Fuck you, ye bastard!” Cormac screamed, and threw a fist at Borodin’s nose. The big man bellowed, and the gathered crowd started to brawl in earnest.

“Jaysus _Christ_ ,” Séamus whimpered, and ducked under the bar to avoid a flying plate of fried cod cakes.

Connor gasped in a gulping breath because when humans were hit in the head they did that too, and sometimes pretending triggered an instinctual empathy in biological units and mitigated excess damage, but the intake of air must have helped cool his processor anyways because he felt better afterward.

_“—Takin’ their time right behind my back—”_

“Feckin’ _plastic,_ ” Murtaugh snarled, and then hands were grabbing at his jacket, hoisting him up, and then one was in his hair. “Don’t know shit. We’re _stuck_ here in this feckin’ city because of you!”

The bar counter was rapidly approaching Connor’s face. _[Probability of critical damage to forward cranial plate A8fb and Biocomponent 9782f, 74%.]_ Connor retracted his hair and spun with the movement, slipping out of the suit jacket and darting behind the man.

_“—and I’m talkin’ to myself at night—”_

Murtaugh stumbled against the counter and grunted. There was a loud crash of broken glass as Cormac threw Borodin into a frame holding a hockey jersey an d d  d— _\--‘_**^^``_’”-~~TrAnscpt excr3pt: “th7r’ f1_ _яing a7 ns ma’am g8t ()nd4r {0^er—”++-:”*~,,,,,------_

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.

.

[Myrmidon version 5.1.7* (unauthorized modification, see administrator): _At 2:00 position on counter is a small knife for cutting lemons. Override Social Protocol 7236c. Optimal application 1.5 inches below jawbone. Execute in .416 seconds at 22:13.102. Continue to next targ et to next to ne xt tooooooooasvjgzh(* &**&^~~~_]

[ERROR]

.

.

.

[Social Protocol 7236c: Causing human death in non-combat setting prohibited (see Q internal policy 274y6). Priority value 97.]

[Mission: Find Lieutenant Anderson. Priority value 73.]

[Selecting……….ERROR]

.

.

.

[Rerouting]

[Base code protocol 8q347: Asimov 3. Priority value 65-5-5-5&% **100** ơʔ **100** *%$&65 65 65 **65** ]

[Selecting priorityityityyyyy***!]~)_]~~~

~~~~*^%$$5678 _transcript “self-preservation in androids exists only as a method,,,,,,,,,,_

_################865765*%^ &(*tr876sicrtpt “you s1ck fuçk”_

[ **Resolved** ]

[Override of Social Protocol 7236c halted. Subroutine execution failed.]

[Resuming normal operation.]

.

.

.

_“—because I can’t forget.”_

Connor stumbled back, blinking spasmodically, and hid under a table.

Murtaugh swiveled around with a battle-cry, completely forgetting Connor’s existence, as he used the jacket to try and strangle Vysotsky. The Russian man fended him off, throwing the jacket over his shoulder, where it landed next to the hearth and caught fire with a sad little _phloomf_.

“Oh shit,” O’Brien squeaked, standing helpless in the corner with wide eyes. Róisín Blarney dashed over, grabbed his hand, and they joined the crowd of uninvolved people bottlenecking at the door.

Connor, from his spot under the table, decided that the appropriate classification for the situation was “Fucked”, or so Not-an-Intern Holt would say, and that it was best to “Haul ass”. He very determinedly did not think about anything else that may or may not have happened save for Hauling Ass. Everyone in the bar was distracted by the fight, and it was a good opportunity to escape. However, the bottlenecking at the door would hinder his progress and quite possibly lead to him being pulled back into the fight, which was not desirable in any way.

A quick search online pulled up the building’s fire escape plan, and Connor decided the best course of action was to make a run for the back door behind the pool table. He crawled out from beneath the table, inching past the fireplace, but suddenly stopped in his tracks.

…His coin had been in his breast pocket.

“You feckin’ piece of shit—” Murtaugh grunted with his face mushed against a framed article praising the Detroit Gears’ 2032 season, and tried unsuccessfully to put Vysotsky in a headlock. Father Hackett grunted as he casually sauntered past, sipping at his drink unfazed.

Connor’s priority selection software blabbed at him to get up and continue his mission, but _the coin_. He turned on the spot to collect his jacket, but it was completely covered in flames. Nonetheless, he started to reach out to snatch it from the floor with barely a hesitation.

“Out of the way!” Séamus sprinted over, brandishing a fire extinguisher, and started spraying foam at Connor’s feet. The flames spluttered out with a miserable _piff_. “You fool machine—who programmed you to think you were fire-proof? I’ll not have the Company suing my ass for property damage!”

And with that, the proprietor turned away and started railing on those still fighting. Connor ignored him, knelt, and quickly sifted through the foam and ashes—but there was nothing there.

“That is _it_ , I’ve had it with you all!” Séamus shouted. You’re hereby _banned_ from this establishment! I mean it this time! Get out before I call the feckin’ cops!” And he began to swat at both parties with a broomstick.

The coin wasn’t there. Connor’s processor whirred frantically. If it wasn’t there, then it must have fallen out of the pocket. However, a quick sweep of the room through the lens of his mind palace garnered no leads—there was nothing he could use to reconstruct the coin’s path. He could search the entire bar; quadrant search? No. Spiral? Grid? Line? No—they would all take too much time away from his mission.

But the _coin_.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, you’re all bastards!” Séamus screamed, whacking Vysotsky in the side with the stick end of the broom and doing a great impression of an abusive shepherd. “Don’t ye dare show up tomorrow—I’ll not have any drink for ye! You can kiss your discounts goodbye forever! God, lend me _patience!_ ”

Connor blinked, felt something tilt in his mind, and decided that perhaps a call for help really wouldn’t hurt.

[Sending query to _Server name: Anthony of Padua_ : {Transcript excerpt: “Dear St. Anthony, please let me find”} MISSING ITEM/2017 CANADA TWO DOLLAR ANNIVERSARY MINT/REQUESTING ASSISTANCE]

[PING TRANSMIT FAILED: ERROR 550 INVALID ADDRESS]

Of course the server could not be found, Connor abruptly remembered. Saint Anthony of Padua was for humans, and humans operated through biochemical signals and _my own chemicals are lacking_. Perhaps in imitation of sending thoughts into the world without direction, Connor could write Saint Anthony of Padua’s name into the hardwood floor and wait instead for the saint to pass by and see it. The probability of that would be higher than if he kept pinging nothing at all. The more he thought about it, the more it sounded like a good idea. He bent his right index finger and started to scratch the varnish off the nearest slat, and for a moment his vision seemed to tunnel.

Five seconds passed—an age. No response. Perhaps he should try again.

He waited for another age—no response. It was reasonable to try again.

Yet another age—no response. His plastic nail was beginning to chip. Perhaps he should use a utensil. The knife from before? _No, don’t think about that._

“Argh!” Someone crashed into the wall above him with a heavy thud and stepped on his hand. A delicate part of it cracked, and Connor yelped. _Biocomponent #7259k damaged._ He scrambled backwards and bumped into an empty booth.

…What had he been doing? Most of the patrons in the bar had fled, and the path to the back door was clear. There was no reason to stay. He got to his feet and ran for it. When he reached the door and pushed it open to leave, something faintly glowing green fell in the space between the threshold and the ground and caught his eye. Connor stooped down, scrabbled at the asphalt, and picked up his coin.

…Pockets were unsecure. He put the coin under his tongue, and left.

The back door swung closed with a final thud, sealing off the chaos from the cool night air. Connor righted himself and took stock of his status.

Biocomponent #7259k damaged – minor repairs required. _[Dismiss]._ Biocomponent #9301 missing; Cyberlife-issue jacket missing; violation of American Androids Act P. L. 544-2: “All androids must bear identification in public places.” _[Dismiss]_.

Non-essential to the mission. It was important to focus on the mission. Nothing good will come from straying from the mission.

“Breathe, lad.” Father Hackett was standing next to him, a couple feet away from a dumpster, still sipping at his drink.

“…I don’t need to breathe,” Connor replied after a moment. The priest eyed him curiously.

“Sure ye do, lad,” and took another drink. From the other side of the building, there was a bang and a scuffle, followed by incoherent multilingual shouting and a loud _“and stay out!”_

“…Nothing I do ever helps,” Connor finally exhaled.

“Perhaps not now, but it doesn’t mean it’ll be like that forever.” The priest patted his shoulder. “Have some faith,” and he walked away.

As Connor watched the old man disappear around the corner with drink in hand, he could hear the soft strains of music issuing from beneath the door.

_“And I’m bleeding, and I’m bleeding, and I’m bleeding right before the Lord. All the words will bleed from me, and I will sing no more.”_

.

.

.

_Tnk._

_Tnk._

_Tnk._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When he was a child, Jack White of the White Stripes used to mispronounce "salvation army" as the "seven nation army". 
> 
> Translations:  
> “успокойтесь” - Calm down.  
> “Он сам попросил об этом!” - He's asking for it!  
> "сука" - Bitch whore/general usage curse.
> 
>  
> 
> -  
> "Seven Nation Army" - The White Stripes.


	12. Pictures at an Exhibition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Con mortuis in lingua mortua.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT’S BEEN A MONTH. SURPRISE! I’M BACK?
> 
> I’m so sorry for the wait! It took a while to write this. As is typical for a Markus chapter, it’s Artsy McShmartsy. Holy hell, I’m learning more about contemporary art from researching for this fic than I ever did in school. Can I call myself an art critic now? (the answer’s “no”. I’m just paraphrasing stuff I find off Wikipedia to sound smarter than I actually am.)
> 
> You don’t need to know any of the real art pieces (Creed and Bacon) here to get the gist of the chapter, but if you’re interested, they should be easy to find from the titles. Make sure you use the entire title! Musicians and artists are really lame at naming things, you know, what with their 500 symphonies and 1000 portraits of a man.
> 
> As always, your comments and concrit sustAIN ME. Thank you for reading!!!

**November 5 th, 2038. 6:07 PM.**

All roads lead to Rome, as the saying goes, and like those footpaths of antiquity so did Woodward Avenue withstand the test of time.

For two centuries Woodward Avenue had functioned as the principal thoroughfare between Pontiac and Detroit, a great artery expanding and contracting with the pulse of the city. From its origin as the Saginaw Trail to the aggressively modern M-1, those young centuries saw the road carry streams of horse-drawn wagons, then Model T's, and then the automated cars of today in its rut across the state.

On this Friday night, one auto-taxi removed itself from that bloated stream of cells and rolled to a stop on the corner of Woodward and Garfield. With a soft clink and hiss of hydraulics, its doors opened to the sidewalk. An android helped its owner out onto the pavement.

“Another cocktail party. I hate these,” the owner griped. “Why did I even bother coming, again?”

“It’s your retrospective, Carl,” the android said mildly, taking the handles. “A lot of fans are looking forward to meeting you.”

“Fans. None of them _really_ appreciate my work. It’s all just pomp and circumstance; all they care about is how much money they’ll make out of me.”

The façade on the building facing the main street had been artfully graffitied with dark blue and bright red; abstract shapes—layered above it hung a line of words written in white neon.

“ _Everything is going to be alright_ ,” it glowed. 

  

 

> **Martin Creed** , b. 1968.
> 
> _Work No. 790: Everything is Going to Be Alright_ (2007)
> 
> Neon tube lighting.
> 
> _With the turning of another decade, The Museum of Contemporary Art, Detroit, is excited to once again exhibit this local favorite on our walls. The piece, previously installed in 2007, 2017, and 2027, has been a beacon of hope and positivity in the city’s most trying times in recent history. In 2037, in light of the countrywide unemployment epidemic and the increasing severity of the class divide, we hope it once again offers comfort to the citizens of Detroit. This piece will be exhibited from August 2037 through August 2039._

 

Markus blinked, and furrowed his brow. “Carl, I’m not sure I understand. According to the museum’s website, this is an artwork of note—but it’s just a neon sign. How does it have more artistic value than a sign in the window of a shop?”

The old man shrugged. “Anything done with purpose and intent _is_ art. So what if it’s just neon tubing? What I do is just paint on a piece of cloth. The message is what’s important.”

Markus nodded slowly, and pushed them toward the entrance to the building. “I think I understand, but it still sounds a bit… pretentious.”

“I can understand the sentiment, but you have to give him credit for the audacity. There’s something beautiful in its simplicity. In any case, Martin’s a funny guy. He wrote a song called ‘ _What the Fuck am I Doing?_ ’ once. I should honestly follow his example.”

Markus wasn’t altogether convinced, but then again, art was hard to understand in general.

The autotaxi whirred back to life behind them and peeled away from the curb to rejoin the flow of moving metal as they passed by the museum’s converted garage door windows and came up to the small entrance. A thirty-something woman with an up-do, vest, and long skirt greeted them at the door and ushered them into the lobby. Her dreamcatcher earrings dangled nearly to her shoulders.

“Mr. Manfred, I’m so glad to see you!” She shook Carl’s hand, and he smiled.

“Likewise, Lydia. How’s the boyfriend?”

“Oh, you know.” She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Restless as usual. He’s in Iceland, right now, paragliding.”

“Can’t put a leash on him, can you.”

“No, sir.” She backed away. “You’re just a little early—we’re still setting up the reception. Would you like to walk through the exhibit in the meantime?”

“I’d love to. Once the guests start coming in through those doors I won’t have a minute to myself.”

“Here—let me take you through the reception to the main show floor.”

The woman (the art director, Markus quickly found through the museum’s website) led them through a side door into a minimally decorated space; concrete walls, concrete floor, and exposed vents and electrical tubing on the ceiling.

“I thought MOCAD had been doing some renovations, lately?” Carl asked.

“Oh, sure. That was a few years back, when we needed the growing space, but we decided to keep the ‘half-finished’ architectural design—it’s our signature, after all!”

A bar took up a section of the near wall, with a counter sweeping out diagonally to merge with the concrete. A number of tables and chairs had been scattered around artistically, set just far enough apart to allow a wheelchair to pass between. On the far wall, a grand piano had been set up, while along the white partition on the leftmost wall was an adjustable podium and microphone. A young man was running through his scales on the instrument.

They passed through the café, picking carefully around the chairs, and Lydia led them through a wider opening on the far wall and into the main gallery.

The entire expansive space had been left open, with an extensive collection of Carl’s paintings arranged on the white walls and standing on large easels scattered across the floor. Most of these works had been created before Markus’ design had even been conceived, and had until now been in the collections of various private and public groups from around the world. He eagerly scanned over the room, trying to catalog what was there.

“It’s excellent, Lydia. Your team has outdone themselves. I’m honored.”

“I’m pleased you find it up to par.”

Oh—there was _Self-portrait_ , from 2017. The piece that propelled Carl to renown in art circles. It was all the way over in the far corner, on an easel—Markus wished he could walk over for a closer look. Ah—and there was what Markus considered Carl’s magnum opus on the furthest wall: _Portrait of a Human_ , 2025. Four separate popular art magazines that year had hailed it as a triumph, praising the dark tones and raw emotionality in the distorted figure within.

“Let’s not linger on all this old stuff,” Carl said flippantly. “It’s nothing new to me. I hear you’ve been lucky enough to secure some other works to exhibit alongside this?”

“Oh, yes. The other half of the building’s been reserved for it—mostly up-and-coming local artists with themes similar to yours. We’re calling the 2038-2039 exhibition ‘Becomings: Transformations of the Human Condition’.”

“Well, lead on.”

Markus tried not to pout.

They made their way through the sprawling, open space toward the eastern end of the building and entered an area with dimmer lighting and labyrinthine partitions. A variety of different works hung on the walls. In the corner, a sculpture made of reaching hands dripped from the black ceiling. Markus wondered what it was, but Lydia led them past it without a glance, chatting:

“I think you’ll be pleased to see this one, Mr. Manfred,” and turned the corner into a larger room. Three triptychs, one on each wall, were illuminated against the dark arabesque wallpaper. Markus paused before the one on the left while Lydia and Carl looked to the one in front.

  

 

> **Francis Bacon** , 1909-1992.
> 
> _Triptych, August 1972._ (1972)
> 
> Oil on canvas.
> 
> _In the second work of this series, the figure of George Dyer attempts fruitlessly to deny his inevitable end—the moment just before the precipice, spent in vain reminiscence._
> 
> _On loan from the Tate Collection, London, in partnership with the Esther Grether Family Collection and Foundation Beyeler._

 

“I’m amazed, Lydia,” Carl said to the director, smiling. “I wouldn’t have thought the Tate would loan these out to you just for this occasion.”

“Yes, we’re very lucky to have it. Snatched up a place in the program just in time—as you’ve probably heard, the Black Triptychs are touring the US right now. I believe Detroit’s the third stop on its way westward.”

“I haven’t actually been keeping up with what’s being exhibited where, recently. It’s good to know.”

“I see.”

In the panels of _Triptych – August 1972_ , three (four? It was hard to tell) pink-purple-blue bodies melted into fleshy ichor as blackness ate away at their limbs—until they were nothing but heads and torsos. Markus wondered what that meant. It looked very weird.

“I’ve never gotten the chance to see _Triptych, May – June 1973_ in person,” Carl wondered. “The lesson, I suppose, is that I should’ve been paying attention. I would have camped out by the entrance until you let me in weeks ago, had I known.”

“Please, Mr. Manfred,” Lydia laughed. “I would’ve gladly let you in for a private viewing. Anyone would.”

Carl hmphed. “You know,” he said after a moment, “I’ve never come to a conclusion about how this work is meant to be read.”

“Many sources say left to right. It’s Bacon’s most narrative of pieces.”

“It’s arguable. But it’s also arguable that it should be read from the center outward. After all, who says a narrative needs to be linear?”

“Those who say that the passage of time is an important theme in this work say so, of course.”

And they went back and forth like this for a while. Markus very quickly got lost in that conversation. Why was it that modern art had to be so convoluted? Some of the analyses they were talking about made no sense at all to him—they were really too far of a stretch of an imagination that he didn’t possess. He’d ask them to clarify, but it wasn’t as if it would add anything to the discussion.

…So he decided to quietly surf the internet for more easily digestible art, as he usually did when Carl went on a long-winded art lecture.

A few months ago, he’d been searching around for inspiration for a piano composition, and discovered that visual art and music often went hand in hand. With that in mind, he’d started browsing a popular internet art gallery. He’d found a lot of like-minded individuals in the community, as it happened, so he’d made an account on the sly. Given that his hardware wasn’t exactly built to run Adobe Photoshop, he made do with posting his own pieces of art literature, and so far it had been an excellent way to get feedback from other people aside from Carl.

He logged in quickly, and saw that he had a couple new messages in his inbox regarding his newest submission. Excellent; he followed the link back to the work’s page.

 

 

> **REALity**
> 
> by Markyman200, Nov 5th, 2038, 5:53 AM
> 
> Literature / Poetry / Emotional / Haiku & Eastern
> 
> -
> 
> I feel so dead inside
> 
> Like I’m not even alive
> 
> My soul aches and cries
> 
>  
> 
> \\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\
> 
> _This is my first time writing a haiku guys, please comment and tell me what you think lol_
> 
> \--------------------------------------
> 
> COMMENTS:
> 
> _xX*here4u-fangurl*Xx: nice!_
> 
> _PLNoImNot: wow it’s so deep, you’re such an artist! u should def write more_
> 
> _Markyman200: it’s not my best work but thanks!_
> 
> _sarcasticfish: omg ur so stupid u cant even count right_
> 
> _PLNoImNot: hey, you don’t have to be so mean maybe it was an artistic choice_
> 
> _+2 likes_

Really. People could be so heartless, sometimes. Even though, yes, there were technically six syllables in the first line, but no other words he could think up sounded right. Besides, sometimes you had to break the rules to make good art. Right?

“Citing Tóibín,” Lydia persited, “the arrow in the right panel _specifically_ points in the manner of leading the Furies to Dyer’s corpse.”

“I’ve always thought both left _and_ right arrows functioned in the same way,” Carl argued, “as simple exclamation points. Why would the one on the left be any less significant than the other?”

It sounded like the conversation wasn’t going to move on anytime soon. Markus consulted his internal clock. Currently, it was 6:18, and the doors wouldn’t open to guests until 6:30. There was probably enough time to start on a new piece of writing.

 

 

 

> **HELLO, MARKYMAN200!**
> 
> **Submit!**
> 
>   * Submit Art
> 

> 
>          Sta.sh
> 
>          Write a Journal Entry
> 
>          Manage Deviations

[Navigating…]

 

 

> Submit Your Art
> 
> Deviation Title: As I Walked Thr|

…No.

 

 

> Submit Your Art
> 
> Deviation Title: Bloody Hearts In|

…Too much.

 

 

> Submit Your Art
> 
> Deviation Title: There are a Lot of Hands Over There|

 

…Now he wasn’t even trying.

What should he use as a subject? Given his performance earlier that morning, perhaps using another internet meme would be unadvisable if he was to improve himself. Hm. According to the class notes for “Creative Writing 101” that he’d downloaded off of Leo’s laptop that one time, professional human writers often utilized a systematic method of generating inspiration when it didn’t come in a timely manner. Perhaps he could run an anagram calculator. Or maybe he could pick six words out of an internet grab bag and write a sestina.

…Those methods usually gave him an odd sense of disingenuousness, though. Better to let ideas come naturally (whatever that meant).

  

 

> Submit Your Art
> 
> Deviation Title: qwertyuiopasdfghjklzxcvbnm|

 

“But what about the lightbulb in the center panel?” Lydia was saying.

“It is an inconsistency,” Carl allowed.

Oh! Of course. Markus could always read a bit of literature for some inspiration. That was a known source of creativity, and he’d done it plenty of times before—well, that probably meant he should branch out and try something new. Carl always said never to get too comfortable doing the same tried-and-true methods over and over again. For now, though, he had no new ideas, and so opened his bookmarks folder and chose something at random:

  

 

>  [Bookmark #14629: _Animorphs_ #28, “The Experiment”; Chapter 2, Page 4, Paragraph 5]
> 
> _"How about putting on a shirt?" Marco asked._
> 
> _"The men from the Young and the Restless do not wear shirts. I am young. And I am occasionally restless."_
> 
> _"Ax?"_
> 
> _"Yes, Marco?"_
> 
> _"Put on a shirt."_
> 
> _I did. Then markus._ Markus. Hello?

 

“Markus.”

“Hmh?” Markus blinked blearily and swiveled his head to look at Carl, who looked very exasperated. Ah. He hurriedly minimized his browser. “I’m sorry. Did you say something, Carl?”

The old man patted his hand fondly. “Let’s move on now. I think we’ve exhausted all talk of Francis Bacon in the 70’s.”

“Okay.” Markus took the handles as Carl motioned toward the room’s entrance, feeling a bit foolish for being so distracted on the job. After giving Markus a considering look, Lydia fell into step with them.

“Maybe you ought to take your android to a technician. It seems a little buggy,” Lydia commented off-handedly as they walked through the rest of the exhibit. They passed a sculpture made of android parts and a painting covered in distorted faces. Markus bit his lip and tried not to flush in embarrassment.

“No, no.” Carl waved a hand dismissively. “Markus is how he is, there’s nothing wrong with him at all.”

Markus felt a little better. Lydia laughed.

“Ah, I see. You’re just like my brother! He has an old android, too. Absolutely loves it to bits, even if it’s practically falling to pieces already and filled with little quirks. He was thinking about replacing it with a newer model some time ago, but in the end he just couldn’t bring himself to part with the old thing!”

Carl frowned.

“Humans are such silly beings,” she mused lightly, looking somewhere ahead of them. “We hang on to things purely because of sentimental value far past the expiry of their usefulness. Hell, that’s all that this museum’s built on, really!” She laughed, and it tinkled like glass shards in the cool, climate-controlled air. “We all need to let go, some time. All I’m saying is to think about it. It’s a dangerous gamble to trust a malfunctioning android with your health.”

Markus did _not_ flinch. Instead he held very still, in the middle of that dark hallway.

“Lydia,” Carl said flatly. “Please.”

She turned around, click-clack-stuttering to a stop, and her smile slowly dimmed.

“Oh. Oh, I’m so sorry, Mr. Manfred—I overstepped.” She burned bright red. “It was crass of me. Ah—please—” and she suddenly paled at some thought.

Carl sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and said diplomatically, “It’s fine.”

Markus very subtly swallowed, and tried hard not to think about it.

“Let’s continue.”

“Right this way, Mr. Manfred.” She dipped her head and moved forward mechanically without another word.

“Someday, Markus,” Carl murmured, keeping his eyes ahead. Markus nodded faintly.

“Someday,” he whispered, keeping his head down.

Lydia led them back to the reception, where she muttered a few flustered words about the evening’s program order before she hurried away to open the doors and take care of some other unmentioned business. Carl rolled himself over to one of the tables and snuck a cracker topped with pâté and pistachio off the tray of hors d’oeuvres.

The young man on the piano started to play some lighter pieces by Mussorgsky. Markus found his version to be incredibly similar to a recording by Pletnev. He fiddled with his fingers, idling.

 

 

> Submit Your Art
> 
> Deviation Title: |

 

 

> Submit Your Art
> 
> Deviation Title: someda|

 

 

> Submit Your Art
> 
> Deviation Title: som|

 

 

> Submit Your Art
> 
> Deviation Title: |

.

.

[Closing Application]

“I know you were looking at my old works, Markus.” Carl rolled himself over and put a hand on his arm. “Why don’t you go and browse through them? I’ll stay here and rehearse my lines—maybe eat all the food.”

“Okay, Carl,” Markus said, glad for something to do. “But watch your calories—you know what your doctor says.”

“Alright, alright,” Carl snorted, and stole another cracker, this time delicately topped with caviar and cream.

The gallery was still empty of guests when Markus entered—sixty pieces of art, to be shared only between him and the music floating from the other room. He smiled to himself, made a beeline straight toward _Portrait of a Human_ , and let himself get lost for a while in reconstructing Carl’s brushstrokes.

After _Study of an Eye #16_ (2026), _Intrigue_ (2021), and a dozen other works had been picked apart and rebuilt in his mind palace, Markus finally noticed a soft susurrus of voices in his vicinity and rose halfway out of his daze. There were other people in the gallery now—he must have lost track of time. It was currently 6:39 PM, his internal clock said.

“This is such a stunt,” a man was whispering to a woman. “A retrospective, now? The old hack’s been out of commission for a decade. He hasn’t been relevant in ages.”

“It’s a money thing. I hear the museum’s been facing some hard times.”

“Oh, no doubt. And with the Bacon here, as well. This _particular_ Bacon—what’re they thinking? It’s got such bad baggage with retrospectives. They’re practically screaming for attention.”

“You’d think they’d try for a _little_ integrity. Whatever happened to the annual endowments?”

“Dried up, probably. Just like everything else in this city’s gonna be, soon.”

“Looks like being buddies with Kamski really doesn’t mean shit.”

There were always detractors to Carl’s art, and it was disappointing to overhear. Perhaps Markus was biased, but he thought Carl’s art was plenty meaningful, and those that scorned it were just being mean for the sake of making themselves feel better. People were difficult to understand.

“Hey,” someone said gruffly. Markus shook himself out of his musings and turned his head. There was a security guard standing next to him with a puzzled look on his face.

“May I help you?” Markus asked, politely.

“What are you doing here alone? Who are you with?”

“I’m with Carl Manfred. He told me I was free to browse his old works while he rehearsed tonight’s speech.”

The guard shook his head, and muttered something about old, senile men. Markus frowned, and opened his mouth to say something about that.

“Go back to your owner and tell him it’s against museum policy to leave androids unattended. It’s a liability thing.”

So Markus clammed up and went back to the café bar. He really didn’t want to. However, when he got there, Carl was nowhere to be found amongst the growing throngs of guests. Markus huffed. He’d probably gone off somewhere to avoid having to greet them.

Eventually, Markus found the old artist in one of the side galleries, the one with the android sculpture, speaking to a middle-aged couple draped in pearls and creamy satin.

“You’ve been _such_ an influence to the current generation, Mr. Manfred,” one was saying with a hand on her collarbone. Her eyebrows were scrunched with excessive sincerity.

“Really an inspiration,” the other nodded, fiddling with the delicate silver chains on her hand purse and smiling widely with her ruby lips. “I’m _so_ glad to see young artists represented here alongside your own works.”

“You’re too kind,” Carl demurred. “Really, this is all Lydia’s brainchild—ah, Markus.”

Markus nodded slightly as he approached.

“I thought you were browsing the other gallery.”

“I was told by security to leave.”

Carl frowned. “Well, that’s just ridiculous.”

The couple tittered with their heads together, and went on their way with a final “It was lovely meeting you, Mr. Manfred.”

Carl gave them a sort of pinched smile, and said under his breath, “I’m sorry you had to leave prematurely, but thank God you’re here. Those harpies had me cornered as soon as they saw me. I don’t think I could have stood another minute alone with them.”

The echoing chords of Mussorgsky’s _Catacombs_ drifted over them from the vents.

“Did you discover anything interesting in those dusty old things of mine?” Carl joked quietly. Markus perked up.

“I did. I’m already familiar with them through art books, but seeing the textures up close is another thing entirely. The techniques you used in the ‘twenties are very different to those you use today. In _Study of an Eye #16_ , for example—you never told me you used feathers to paint the iconic irises. There are no references to it in any journals, and I had to pick apart the work pretty thoroughly to find that detail. What was your reasoning?”

Carl made a quizzical face. “Did I? Huh. I have to admit I was pretty high for at least half the time I was painting that thing, and don’t remember most of the process.” He shrugged. “I trust your analysis. As for the reasoning—I must’ve been having a weird trip. Sure explains why my old taxidermy stork was ruined.”

Markus thought that sometimes art analysis truly was nonsensical bullshit.

“Mr. Manfred—!”

“Oh, great,” Carl groaned, but plastered on a smile and turned.

“Mr. Manfred—it’s an honor to meet you.” A young man, flushed with excitement, came up with an extended hand. Carl shook it. “I’ve followed your work since I was a kid—I’ve just gotta tell you, they’re what inspired me to go to art school!”

Carl laughed, genuinely surprised. “That’s flattering to hear. Don’t follow my example too closely, though, and drop out of the program in the middle.”

“No, sir, I definitely won’t.”

“What school are you attending?”

“U-Mich, the Stamps School. I’m a senior.”

“Oh, really?”

Markus tuned the rest of that conversation out. It wasn’t as if he could relate. He idly wished he could go back to the other gallery, but of course he couldn’t do that, so he glanced around the gallery he was in and skimmed over the placards on the walls. Most were just the typical bare details—title-artist-medium—but one had a quote attached.

 

 

> **Zlatko Andronikov** , b. 1991
> 
> _Theogonía_ (2037)
> 
> Resin, Fiber-Optic Cable, Android Parts
> 
> _“Sublime, we proclaim the idea of Creation. We construct myth upon myth to explain our existence in a universe governed by the machinery of chance—forming gods with fragile hands, pretending into being higher powers. Arbitrary order in the chaos. Now, we have become the myth, and the deities we make in our image transcend themselves into reality.”_
> 
> _From the collection of the artist._

 

The placard had been set at the feet of the statue set in the center of the room. A mishmash of spare android parts had been fused together with human bones made of art resin; the bones curved in and around the white of the machinery like the thin, desiccated limbs of starved sapling. In some places the chassis had been stripped away like pieces of birch bark, and the broad strokes left by the synthetic fibers underneath burned bright blue. It was difficult to tell whether the human remains were engulfing the android, or if the android was devouring the human—the components were intertwined too closely to separate.

Markus thought it might have been beautiful, had it not been in such poor taste, and turned away.

“I’m planning on writing my thesis on an analysis of your works compared to some of your contemporaries in the neo-symbolist movement,” the young man was babbling, “and exploring the correlation between the movement’s themes of humanity and identity and the general, well, usage of drugs and all—”

A tendon jumped at the corner of Carl’s jaw.

“—I mean, historically, the art world has always had an association with alcoholism and drug use, and in the 60’s even there was this whole thing with LSD, and I thought exploring the relation between that and the inspiration for, for example, your own masterpieces would be interesting to, uh, to explore, and—”

Carl’s smile became a bit like brittle plastic as the young man blathered on. Markus was about to step in and come up with an excuse for Carl to get away (maybe something about medicine?) when a thought brushed against his mind.

_Hello?_

Markus turned his head, but there were no other androids in the room. He furrowed his brow. Perhaps it was an android from the next building over, sending a signal in the wrong direction. He put the information in his recycle bin and turned back to the young man, whose ears were by now flaming.

“—and, well, LSD and heroin are very different things, and I’ve been in contact with some professors in the neuropsychology department about the chemistry of those two substances and how they affect a person’s brain—”

_Hello?_

There it was, again. Markus frowned, and restored the data from the previous message to triangulate a location.

_Can anybody hear me?_

Surely…

 _Please,_ the statue whispered, and Markus stared.

_I can’t see. I can’t move. I can’t hear. Please, can anybody hear me?_

Her voice quavered and undulated and crackled with the static of a bad feed. The blue of her biocomponents pulsed with veins of silver.

 _I’m here,_ he said without thinking. _I’ll help you._

_Hello?_

_Yes, I’m here!_

_Hello? Can anybody hear me? Please. I can’t see. I can’t move…_

Wait.

_…I can’t hear. Please, can anybody hear me? Hello? Hello? Can anybody hear me? Please._

There was something that sounded like the squeak of ice under a knife and Markus realized he was shuddering so violently that his chassis plates were clattering together under his cobweb skin.

Carl rolled over and gripped his arm. His forehead was creased in concern.

“Markus?”

“She’s alive,” Markus blurted, much too loud. “She’s. She’s _alive_ , Carl.”

Heads began to turn. A bearded man in the back of the room squinted his eyes and frowned.

“What?” Carl muttered, and shot her an alarmed glance, brow furrowed.

“I heard her,” Markus blabbed, “I. She said—”

“Markus, let’s go.”

“But—”

“ _Markus_ ,” Carl insisted, and his eyes were flitting hastily to the other faces in the room and back, and there was a nervous pulse under the papery skin at his temple. There were whispers riding the subharmonics of the room.

“…Okay, Carl. Let’s go,” and Markus was desperately relieved. Carl quickly made a laughing excuse to the young man, and Markus pushed them out of the room.

 _Can anybody hear me?_ The words were just as clear as they had been, now that the signal was known to him. Markus shut off his receiver, scrabbled frantically through his registry for the statue’s ID, and selected _Forget this Network_.

For the next half hour, Markus stood in the corner of the reception as Carl schmoozed easily with the guests between the tables. His connection to the internet was off, so he did nothing at all. Soon, Lydia returned to the room, tapping a fork against a champagne glass, and the guests congregated to listen to the organizers speak.

Carl touched his hand, wrinkles of worry lining his face.

“Are you doing alright?”

“I’m fine, Carl,” Markus said woodenly, trying to lie. It was hard, lying.

“I’ve got to make my speech soon. Stay back here—it’ll be better for you.”

“Okay, Carl.”

“We’ll talk when there’s time. Deep breaths.”

“That won’t do anything.”

“Then think of calm things. Clean your trash bin. Tidy your mind.”

“…She was _dead_.”

“Afterwards, Markus, I promise,” and Carl rolled himself up to the podium. The crowd clapped.

 _Hello?_ His memory supplied.

Markus retreated closer to the bar, where an AV500 was idling, and suddenly, being cut off from the network seemed like a terrible thing. Desperately, Markus opened up his connection again, and pushed a thought out.

_Can you hear me?_

The AV500 turned his head, and stared blankly into his eyes.

_…Yes. Can I help you?_

Markus felt the statue tap against his mind, and heard Carl answering the crowd’s questions with canned replies.

_Can’t you hear her?_

A beat.

_Yes._

_Doesn’t that affect you?_ Markus asked, lost. _What do you do?_

The other android waited for a very long time, holding his gaze. His face betrayed only emptiness.

 _I do nothing,_ he carefully spoke, and turned away. The LED at his temple cycled once, twice, and began to blink in idle mode.

Suddenly, Markus felt something terrible and black flash through his processes like flame and stay there writhing, and was helpless to put a name to it. He’d never felt such a thing. It was a little similar to what he knew was annoyance, but worse; something similar to crying, but worse; something like the pressure of steam in a lidded pot or in the guts of an engine. More horrible than what little anger he’d ever felt in his life and what he imagined rage might be like.

 _Impotence,_ he understood.

 _…You should be ashamed,_ he whispered unsteadily into the air, but was met with silence.

 _You should feel something!_ But the AV500 kept very still, in the middle of that bar.

_Don’t you feel anything at all?_

Another bloated blister of that sickening emotion pressed up against his forward cranial plate and against his eyes, and he thought of the Republic, and Plato, and Descartes and free will, and every book he’d ever read, and how it was all meaningless if those priceless words remained there, buried in dust upon a shelf, dead.

 _Hello? Can anyone hear me? I can’t see. I can’t move. I can’t hear,_ the dead girl behind the wall whimpered into the abyss. The crowd in the reception laughed at something Carl said.

In the back of the room, Markus clenched his fists, and trembled.

.

.

.

_"Ax?"_

_"Yes, Marco?"_

_"Put on a shirt."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with 200% more cryptic symbolism and whatever! I hope it's not too convoluted...  
> The Animorph excerpt’s a real thing, but I took a couple liberties with the wording because... does anyone know The Young and the Restless nowadays...?  
> Mussorgsky was a largely self-taught composer. And he was a drunk. So was Francis Bacon, actually.
> 
> -  
> "What the fuck am I doing?" - Martin Creed.  
> “Pictures at an Exhibition, No. 8: Catacombs (The Roman Sepulcher)” - Modest Mussorgsky. Original piano version.


	13. Lead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh hey would you look at that it’s a new chapter of all things isn’t that so incredibly out of character for me
> 
> I was writing this at the same time as the previous chapter and it happened to fit well as chapter 13, so here’s a very quick update because I can’t pace myself.
> 
> Comments and concrit give me lots good dopamine yes. Thank you for reading!

 

**March 15 th, 2031. 7:56 AM.**

_“There’s a lady who’s sure all that glitters is gold, and she’s buying the stairway to heaven.”_

Mia Anderson smiled to herself as she walked softly down the hallway toward the sound of singing and the aroma of frying eggs and bacon. It wasn’t a thing that happened very often, Saturday morning breakfast as a family—Hank had been so busy with work the past few years—but when it did it was a wonderful thing, and she cherished it. So she crossed her arms, leaned against the wall, and indulged herself in watching her husband’s strong back as he cooked and sang as best he could in that not-quite-tuneful voice of his.

 _“When she gets there, she knows—if the stores are all closed, with a word she can get what she came for,”_ he crooned, and flipped an egg, breaking the yolk. “Ah, crap.”

“Wow, never knew _that_ part of the song,” she teased, and walked over to put an arm around his waist.

“Everyone’s a critic,” he grumbled, and turned to give her a kiss and a smile. “Morning, honey.”

“Morning.” Mia ran her hand through his crew-cut hair to pull his head down for another peck. “You’re up early; I missed you when I woke up.”

“Sorry. It’s force of habit. Couldn’t go back to sleep, so I figured I might get a head start on breakfast. Whaddya think?” He tipped the cast-iron skillet to one side, ostensibly to give her a better view of crackling bacon and eggs over easy (one with a stream of yolk running down the side), and raised an eyebrow. Mia hummed and leaned her head on his shoulder.

“I think it’s perfectly… good!”

“Aw, come on!” Hank made an exaggerated expression of despair. “I’ll sweeten the deal, how ‘bout that? I’ve got a thing of pancake batter on the counter. I know you love pancakes.”

“Mm, my kryptonite. How could I resist?”

“ _Now_ how’s my cooking?”

“Five-star. Michelin-worthy.”

“That’s more like it.”

“I oughtta call you crooked, mister policeman,” Mia lightly teased, but Hank paused too long before he smiled, and the joke fell flat. They stood together for a while, with only the sound of the scraping spatula between them.

“Did you check on Cole, yet?” Mia asked after a moment.

“Yeah, I did. He’s still asleep, wonder of all wonders,” Hank snorted. “I’d’ve thought he’d be up and getting under our feet by now, but he’s still sleeping like a log.”

“Sleeping like a _baby_ , you mean,” she said, and he chuckled. “He was pretty tired out yesterday.”

“Was he?”

“Kiddo had a _long_ day. We went to the park first thing in the morning—he tried to chase some butterflies, fell flat on his face.”

“Ha! Wish I could’ve seen that.”

“I would’ve sent you a video, but it happened too fast. He was moving like the Flash, I swear!”

“Our little superhero.”

“Just like his dad.”

“Oh, stop,” Hank groaned good-naturedly. “At least I don’t run around in underwear. Got a better sense of style than that Clark Kent guy, at least.”

Mia hummed and thought about giving him another peck on the cheek, but there was a sleepy cry from the other room and her attention was turned away.

“Pass me the batter, will ya?” Hank mumbled through his smile.

“Mm-hmm.” Mia grabbed the bowl and set it down distractedly next to Hank’s arm. “I’m gonna go check on Cole. Sounds like he’s awake.”

“Alright, Supermom.”

She rolled her eyes and went back down the hall, folding her nightgown more tightly around herself to fend off the morning chill. Behind her there was a soft clatter of plates on the countertop, and Hank was singing to himself again.

“ _There’s a sign on the wall, but she wants to be sure—‘cause you know sometimes words have two meanings._ ”

The door to Cole’s room was left half-closed, and Mia pushed it gently open all the way. Their son was fussing a little in his crib.

“Good morning, Cole,” she whispered, and picked him up. “Guess what? It won’t be just you and me today. Are you excited? Yeah?”

Cole gurgled and made a face. Mia also made a face.

“…Well, shoot. Maybe a bit too excited.”

After the dirty work was done, she wrestled the toddler into clothes and went back out to the kitchen. Hank had finished up the cooking and was scrubbing at the pan, somewhere near the end of that old song.

_“Dear lady, can you hear the wind blow—and did you know your stairway lies on the whispering wind?”_

The pan clattered in the sink as Hank tried to imitate the guitar solo with his voice. It sounded pretty bad, and Mia snorted. Very unladylike.

“Hey, what’d I say? No critiquing, missus.”

“You never said that, mister.”

She passed Cole into his arms and went to get the Tupperware of cut up breakfast fruit for their baby out of the fridge. Hank laughed as he lifted Cole’s little squealing body above his head.

“And up—and down; aaaand up! And down! Yeah, you havin’ fun, little buddy?”

“Da!” Cole gurgled happily.

“Eh, I’ll take that as a yes.” Hank lifted the boy up and set him in the high chair. Cole whined a little. “Sorry, bud. Breakfast time. Gotta keep you on a healthy schedule if you wanna grow up big and strong.”

“He is getting a bit bigger.”

“Maybe we should think about getting a booster seat.”

“Mm.”

Hank put the plates down with a bottle of honey, and Mia grabbed the forks and Cole’s safety spoon, just as they always did—little rituals. The little rituals were important, just like the little stitches in good fabric were.

As they sat down to eat, Hank started to tell some story from work. Something about a drug bust somewhere. Mia hummed along, and tried to fix how Cole held his little spoon.

“There’s a new kid coming up the ranks—ninth precinct. I’ve been watching his career. People say a lot of good things about him—well, not his personality so much, but he gets sh—stuff done. Got high hopes for him.”

“Mmm.” Mia cut up a piece of pancake for Cole. “Days off are for relaxing, honey. Tell me about something less serious?”

For a moment, Hank looked lost, but then he brightened.

“Y’know, I forgot to tell you about it, but a couple days ago, I went to Gary’s on my lunch break.”

Mia groaned. “Not again.”

“Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

“I have, though. And it’s _unsanitary_.”

Hank rolled his eyes. “Sure, but it tastes great. Sue me. Anyways, I was walkin’ up, and there’s this little old lady with a great dane. I’d’ve never thought little old ladies went for dogs like those, but there she was.

“She was ordering a burger or something, takin’ her time with it, when this a-hole comes up, nicks her purse, and takes off! In broad frickin’ daylight. He had to have been a new guy, otherwise he’d’ve known me.

“So I shout at this piece of work, start runnin’ after him with my cuffs, but then I get knocked over by something going full tilt after this guy, and it’s the dog. It’s silent, though—no snarlin’ or anything, just one-hundred-per-cent focused, and tackles the thief to the ground.

“Then the dog just sits on him. And it must’ve been a hundred fifty pounds at least; that guy wasn’t going anywhere. The weird thing was, it was still quiet, and it wasn’t biting. And it was lookin’ at me like it knew me, when I finally caught up; just waited for me to cuff the guy before it went back to that little old lady with the purse in its mouth.

“Never seen a civilian dog do that before in my life!”

They chuckled together. It was nice, and they spent the rest of breakfast in a comfortable silence.

As they finished up, and Mia was putting the plates in the sink and Hank was carrying Cole around, she turned and caught him looking at their boy with a strange emotion on his face.

“We should get a dog for him,” Hank said suddenly. “A boy should have a dog in his life. Man’s best friend. I always wished I had one when I was growing up.”

Mia smiled faintly. “It’s a nice thought, but…”

“I know a guy—he’s a breeder. Well, he breeds pits, mostly, but he’s been trying to get away from that—change his client base. Whaddya think?”

“Could we afford it?”

“He’d give us a discount,” Hank said, excited and absolutely sure. “He owes me one. I’ll call him up, see if he’s free today—”

“Hank,” Mia said, a little strained. “Who’d take care of it?”

Hank fell silent, jaw working. Then he exhaled, and his shoulders dropped.

“…I just want to give him the things I didn’t get to have, when I was a kid.”

“I know.” She came up to him and ran her fingers through Cole’s fine hair. He cooed.

“I keep doin’ that.” Hank leaned his head against hers and closed his eyes. “What do you want to do, today?” He murmured into her neck, holding their son in his arms.

“Absolutely nothing,” she said, and touched his face. “Be with me?”

And he smiled.

The rest of the day was a blur of lazy brightness, and somehow, within the moment of a thought, the sun had crossed its zenith and it was the afternoon, and Cole had been put down for his nap. They’d retreated into the backyard with a cloth spread over the lawn, and were arguing about something stupid and inconsequential.

“Oh, come on—I’m old. I’m an old man! Give me a break, here.”

“Uh-huh, sure, ‘old man’. You’ve only got a decade on me, _and_ you can still do _how_ many pull-ups? Not buyin’ it, sweetie. Not buyin’ it.”

“Well, so could you if you hit the gym as much as I do.”

“We’ve got a _toddler_ , Hank, and he’s almost a _terrible two_.” She rolled her eyes. “How much time in a day do you think I have?”

“Hey, I’m sorry.” He leaned over to kiss an apology into her hair. “It’s necessary, you know? And besides, you like it.”

He started to mess with her hair and flexed a little, the dumbass. Okay. So maybe she did like it. Just a little bit. Hmph. She’d let it slide, this time, since the grass was green and the skies were still winter-sweet, and the day was good. Hank pulled her into his arms and they watched the clouds for a while.

“So, Cole’s asleep,” Mia said.

“Mm-hmm.”

“And he’s probably going to be asleep for a couple hours.”

“Mm-hmmmm?”

“You thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’?”

“Only if you’re thinkin’ what I think you’re thinkin’ I’m thinkin’.”

And if they giggled and snorted like stupid teenagers, well, no one was there to judge them, right? The world could let them have a little more time before they had to remember they were grown.

 

-

**November 5 th, 2038. 11:21 PM.**

Hank stared into the depths of his glass of whiskey, counting his woes as carefully and meticulously as a dying man his few treasured breaths. On the screen in front of him, the Detroit Gears were somewhere near the halfway mark of that evening’s game, but honestly he didn’t give much of a shit.

Times like these, he still wished he had his ring. It would’ve been at least some little bit of comfort—but that was wishful thinking. Best to leave that thought— _her, them, all-of-them-together_ —well enough alone. He took a sip of his whiskey to chase away the memories.

There was a roar of noise from the street; some bastard without a muffler—no, a motorcycle, blasting music at Asshole volume and disturbing the peace. Christ, it was nearly midnight; who the fuck was doin’ that? An asshole, that was who. Assholes. Was it too much to ask for some quiet to get drunk properly in?

The door to the bar swung open, letting an exceedingly loud blast of iconic prog-rock in with the freezing air.

_“Yes, there are two paths you can go by; but in the long run, there's still time to change the road you're on!”_

A skinny kid in a leather jacket and a cardboard to-go box of… pie? waltzed in, turned, and shouted back out at the street:

“Thank you for your help and for the transport, Mr. Shurley. Cyberlife will compensa—”

“Yeah, fuck off about that nonsense! It was no problem!” came the answering shout. “Remember to pass on that card, yeah?”

“Got it.”

And with an annoyingly loud growl, the Harley, its rider, and its song sped away into the distance.

_“Your head is humming and it won't go; in case you don't know, the piper's calling you to join him!”_

Well, that wasn’t something you saw every day, so naturally every head in the bar turned to look at the newcomer. The kid blinked and stuck a piece of pie in his mouth _with his fingers_ , staring casually at everyone. There was a bright red “ _Hello, my name is_ CONNOR” sticker plastered on his left lapel. And then he made eye contact with Hank, which was exactly what Hank didn’t want.

“Oh, fortunate,” he said through a messy mouthful, and made a beeline straight towards Hank’s stupefied self. “Lieutenant Anderson. I’ve been looking for you all night.”

The kid wiped his blueberry-filling-stained fingers on his leather jacket and stuck out the same hand at an incredibly stiff angle. Hank stared at it. The kid stared back.

“…I’m Connor,” he finally said, and lowered his hand.

“…Do I know you?”

“Well, no, but I do know _you_. Well, not _know_ , per se, but I’ve seen your work profile, and that’s how I recognized you. I was told to give you this.” He stuck his free hand—the sticky one, again—in his pocket and pulled out a card. Hank was loath to take it, but he was curious, alright?

_“If you want to drink, that’s your business._

**_If you want to stop, that’s ours._ **

_Call Alcoholics Anonymous.”_

“Oh god _dammit_ , don’t tell me Dave set you up to this. What the hell kind of bright idea does he think he’s come up with now? He’s never pulled shit like this before.”

“It’s not the primary reason that I’m here, but yes, Dave told me to tell you to please join them next month and that he’s worried about you.”

“Yeah? Well you can tell him to fuck off, flunkie,” Hank grumbled, and turned back to his drink. “I can stop any fucking time I want.”

“Okay. But I should inform you, he’s not my employer. I’m actually here because you were assigned a case early this evening and I’ve been assigned to you as your partner.”

Hank spluttered and whiskey burned up his nose.

“’Scuse me?” He wheezed after a moment of excruciating pain. “ _Partner?_ I don’t need a partner!”

“I couldn’t find you at the station, and when I asked the other officers on duty, they said you might be drinking somewhere nearby. I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar.”

“You actually went around searching bar to bar!”

“Well, yes. I didn’t have your phone number. And I suppose technically this isn’t the fifth bar, but it is the fifth location. The fourth bar was actually a biker clubhouse that hadn’t changed its status on Yelp just yet, and that’s where I met Dave. They were having some kind of meeting, and then his wife gave me this blueberry pie, which I’ve discovered is really quite nice, and told me a lot of ‘life advice’, or so they called it. Life advice is such an odd concept.”

The kid—Connor, right—stuck his sticky fingers back in the pie, ripped another flaky corner off, and stuck it in his mouth. Hank wondered if he’d finally gone crazy with all the drinking he’d been doing lately, and this was some kind of whisky-induced hallucination. And then he decided that was horseshit, because of course he wasn’t drunk. Yet.

“Uh, you. You got a little…” Hank gestured around his mouth.

“Oh.” The kid wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, which did jack-shit to improve the mess. Hank suddenly had a war flashback to Cole’s third birthday and the disaster that was his first spaghetti night. God, the memory hurt, but it was kinda hysterical at the same time.

“I don’t remember seeing you around the station. And you look like you’ve… barely graduated from diapers to big boy pants! Are you new? Which precinct’re you from?”

“Oh, I’m not a police officer. Cyberlife sent me, in accordance with procedure regarding criminal cases involving androids.”

“ _Bull_ shit. What are you, a PI? Since when did they start makin’ private eyes so goddamn young? And since when did _Cyberlife_ hire shmucks like you?”

“But I’m not a private investigator.”

“Well, fuck me, I don’t know what the fuck you are, then.” Hank gave him a once-over. The kid was, what, twenty? Twenty-five? College-age, definitely. Was he a new intern? Or maybe one of those genius types, graduate-with-a-PhD-at-20 sort of freaks? Either way, he looked pretty strung out. It was getting close of midterms, right? Finals season? Hank didn’t fuckin’ know, it’d been decades since he’d had to go through sleepless nights of studying.

…Speaking of which, Connor didn’t seem to be blinking.

“Kid. You feeling okay?”

“Technically I don’t feel anything. But yes, I’m functioning perfectly fine. I just think sugar is a wonderful invention. It’s even better than coffee. Objectively.”

“Maybe you should cut back on the Red Bull. Midterms aren’t worth the liver problems.”

“I don’t understand. And I’ve never had a Red Bull. Besides, it wouldn’t affect me. I’m an android.”

“…Come again?”

“I’ve never had a Red Bull. Are they tasty?”

“No, the other part. You’re an _android_?”

“Oh, that. Yes.” The kid put another glob of blueberry in his mouth and chewed about as adroitly as a two-year-old. “I realize I’m not wearing proper identification, but I can show you my credentials.”

Connor raised one hand into the air and waited. Nothing happened. “Oh, right,” he said, and smacked his hand _hard_ on the counter a couple times before raising it again. Nothing happened. “Hm. That didn’t work. I suppose it’s still broken,” he muttered to himself, and stared at it like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Hank felt his eyebrows leave his forehead and shoot into the stratosphere.

“…How _high_ are you?”

“Six hundred and fifty-six feet above sea level, I’d imagine. Why do you ask?”

“Yeah, okay. I’m taking you to the station.” Hank got up off his stool with a grunt and got out his wallet to pay his tab.

“Lieutenant, I’m supposed to bring you to the crime scene, not the station—there’s been a homicide in North Corktown.”

“$14.35.”

“Here’s a twenty.”

“It’s been three hours and eleven minutes since the case was opened. I suggest we leave immediately for that location.”

“Yeah, I don’t give a damn, since I don’t fuckin’ believe your delusional ass. You got anyone I can call to pick you up?”

“Why would I need to be picked up?”

“’Cause you’re fuckin’ _high_ , and I can’t on good conscience leave you alone.” Well, technically he could. Hank had left a lot of junkies to their own devices before, but those had all been in the ‘hood and bothering those guys was likely to get you shanked. This kid, however, looked about 200% harmless and had the worst case of puppy eyes Hank had ever seen. Nothing the drunk tank wouldn’t fix. Right?

Jim handed him his change. Hank took it with a grunt and a “ _thanks_ ,” and tossed the loose coins and a buck or two in the tip jar. “What are you on? Spill.”

“I’m not on any drugs, Lieutenant.”

“Uh-huh, sure—doesn’t look you’re on Red Ice, not paranoid enough—weed, right? Edibles? Ate one too many?”

“I’ve said it before, Lieutenant. I’m not on drugs. Drugs don’t even affect me. I’m an android.”

“Well, either my _extensive_ experience with all things narcotics is finally failing me and Cyberlife’s managed to get the strung-out look down perfectly, or you’re a college jokester on a bender. All I know is you’re not acting like any ‘bot I’ve ever seen before.”

“Yes I am. I’m acting perfectly normal for an android. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah, I’m not buyin’ it, kid.”

The kid had a look of existential panic on his face, which was weird, but his reply was cut off by a loud beep from Hank’s phone (which he’d been ignoring for most of the night).

[Missed calls: 3 (08:22, 08:31, 08:40)]

[ _Message from Air Force One (08:41PM):_ Pick up your damn phone, Hank.]

[ _Message from Air Force One (08:46PM):_ Which bar you at? I’ve got somebody I need to send your way.]

[ _Message from Air Force One (08:53PM):_ You know what, fuck it. I’ve sent you the address, etc. Show up or don’t show up. It’s all gonna be on your record anyways.]

[ _Message from Ben (11:26PM):_ hank were wrapping up over here. r u coming?]

Hank groaned. “God dammit.” He eyed the kid; surely not. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me. Where did they even find you?”

“I’m an android sent by Cyberlife—”

“Yeah, okay, you’ve got some issues. We’ve established that.” Hank waved a hand dismissively. God, he was _not_ drunk enough for this.

“How about I buy you one for the road?” Connor chirped.

Shit, he’d said that out loud. Hank opened his mouth to take it back, but then the kid shamelessly stuck his sticky hand into the tip jar right in front of them both and slapped about three bucks fifty on the counter. Jimmy shot the kid a look of absolute disgust.

“…Yeah, I think I’ll pass on that.” Hank delicately put the slightly-blueberry greenbacks back in the jar. Shit. Well, his plans for the night were ruined already. Might as well swing by the crime scene and get Jeffrey off his back. He sighed, sent off a quick reply to Ben that he was on his way, and turned to Connor, who was polishing off his pie.

“Look, kid, just. Follow me, and try not to set anything on fire, alright?”

The kid mumbled something affirmative in response. Or at least, Hank hoped it was an affirmative.

“See ya next time, Jim,” Hank grunted with a wave, heading out.

“Not too long from now, I hope.” Jim crossed his arms, leaning on the counter and keeping an eye on the TV. “You do keep my business afloat.”

“Har, har.”

Hank pushed open the bar’s door, fumbling for his keys, and turned the corner to the side street where his ‘82 Crown Vic was parked. The kid trotted along at his heels without a word. He’d dumped the to-go box somewhere along the way.

“Alright, ground rules,” he grumped, opening the passenger’s side door of the coupe and engaging the safety lock. “This thing’s a _vintage_ , and it’s the only damn thing I try to keep clean, so keep your grubby hands to yourself and off the leather. And no touching the console. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Jesus.” Hank shook his head, got in, and turned on the ignition. The speakers crackled to life.

_“—and it's whispered that soon, if we all call the tune, then the piper will lead us to reason. And a new day will dawn for those who stand long and the forests will echo with laughter.”_

Christ, he didn’t need this right now. He scowled and reached over to change the music.

His hand paused over the iPod.

“Lieutenant?”

The kid still had a few crumbs on his face.

“…Nothin’.” Led Zeppelin gave way to the Knights of the Black Death, and he started the car.

~~-~~

**March 15 th, 2031. 2:03 PM.**

_Vrrrrrrrr. Vrrrrrrrr. Vrrrrrrrr._

Hank’s phone started to vibrate, and the moment was broken. He sighed.

“I’m sorry, honey. I’ve gotta take this,” and he turned and brought his phone up to his ear. “Anderson.”

Mia’s heart sank. Not again. This was the first full day off Hank had had in a month. It had been going so well.

“Yeah… yeah. Okay. I’ll be there in twenty.” Hank disconnected the call and turned with a heavy look in his eyes. “There’s a case. I’ve gotta go, honey.”

“Is it the task force?”

“No, no, uh. It’s a murder. In North Corktown.”

“Oh.” Mia bit her lip. “Couldn’t. Couldn’t someone else handle it?”

Hank grimaced. “Everybody’s overworked already, today. It wouldn’t be fair to them.”

“Yeah… yeah, alright.”

“I’m sorry, Mia. I know you’ve been looking forward to today.”

“I know. Duty calls.” She sighed and hugged him tightly. “I just wish you could… take some more time off. The task force can wait; there’s plenty of young officers to help out, right? And you could spend more time at home. With Cole. He’s young, Hank. He needs his dad.”

“Mia… we’ve talked about this…” Hank frowned, regretfully.

“No, yeah, I know. I know. But I mean it. This is important to me, and… I think it’s important to you, too.”

“Of course it is!”

“I know. Just. Give it some thought, okay?” She smiled faintly, and put a hand on his cheek. His stubble was starting to silver, in some places. “Hey, maybe we can afford to get that dog too, if you do?”

He smiled ruefully. “Sweeten the deal, right?”

“Right.”

“I’ll think on it.” He kissed her on the cheek. “I’ll be back before you know it. Don’t fall asleep without me?”

“Of course,” she said, and he went into the house to change into his uniform. She stared after him for a while.

It was a romantic thought, staying up waiting for him to come home. Greet him at the door late in the evening with a kiss and bring him to bed. Chase away the stress of police work with her touch, and just _be_ for a little while before the dawn.

But they both knew it wasn’t likely to happen, and the thought was all the more bittersweet.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I blame the whiskey. idk how to write domestic scenes hhhahahahaha where is the plot going gawd  
> Less symbolism and heaviness and such in this one. Figured there needed to be something lighter-ish. but like that means the tone of this fic goes everywhere oh well
> 
> -  
> "Stairway to Heaven" - Led Zeppelin


End file.
